The beggar stopped at the rich man's door, And paused at the miser's stone, Yet stayed he not there, for he did not dare To cross the word "_begone!_" The wretch felt not for others' woes, No soul in his body dwelt; The trembling sprite took a final flight-- Though he seemed to live--on the dismal night When he first to the gold-god knelt. In a village near, his sister lay At the door of the demon death; _Starving_ was written on her brow, And hot was her fevered breath: "_Oh, give me bread!_" in accents low, Was the burden of her prayer-- "_I'm dying, brother!_" 'twas even so; While her eye was glazing, the miser's "_No!_" Startled the chilly air. Cheerily rang the Sabbath bells, And from each hush'd abode The aged sire, and the cheerful child Moved on to the house of God; While prayer was ascending towards the Throne, The miser also prayed; To his golden altar he bowed, alone, And prayed from out his heart of stone That his god would lend him aid. He lieth upon the bed of death, And alone he pines away; As dieth the fool, so passeth his breath, And clay is mingled with clay; No marble is there to mark the spot, No flowret weeps o'er his tomb; Unwept, unhonored, and forgot, Ay, none can weep that he there doth rot-- The miser has gone to his doom! Oh, ye who roll in splendor and wealth Go to the poor man's home; Comfort the sick--employ your gold As gain for the world to come; And the widow's heart shall leap for joy, And the orphan upon your bier, When the summons bears you from earth away To dwell in the mansions of endless day, Shall pour the sorrowing tear. SONNET.--WASHINGTON BY WM. ALEXANDER. A sculptured cenotaph thy sons will raise, That they eternize may thy honored name; Nor this, nor Story's scroll can tell thy praise, So blended with thy glorious country's fame. Lo! in a corner of Mount Vernon's field, Past which Potomac's peaceful waters flow, Reclined hast thou upon thy sacred shield, To sleep till the archangel's trumpet blow. Around thy lone and ever-honored grave, The Muses of thy noble country sing, While the tall corn in plenty still shall wave, To speak of Peace thy valiant sword did bring. Rest peacefully, then, Patriot, Hero, Sage, Best, brightest name to grace fair Clio's sacred page. THE ORPHAN BOY.