Yes, think, as those gems glitter bright on thy hand, With a light from the diamond's mine, Of the little blue fingers benumbed with the cold, That else were as dainty as thine. God fashioned thee both--the poor, shivering child, Alone in the cold winter night, Who begs for its bread, and the pampered, who bask Forever in luxury's light. Then "remember the poor," for their wants are but few; Let thy _much_ but a _little_ insure To the needy; the world will be better, by far, When the rich shall remember the poor. A VALENTINE. BY CLARA MORETON. Fair as Lucrece, and as serenely cold, Art thou, sweet maiden, with thine eyes of blue; Thy tresses long, in bands of burnished gold, Cast shadows o'er a cheek of rose-leaf hue. The silken lashes of those violet eyes Droop with a sunny curve from snowy lid, Half shading all the purity that lies Within their quiet depths so sweetly hid. The matchless arching of thy coral lip, The glittering pearl thy smile discloses, Thy mouth, fresh as the dew the flowers sip, And redolent of sweets as budding roses. Too fair for my unskilful hand to trace! Never a poet could thy charms combine, Nor artist draw thee in thy winning grace Unless a monarch of his art divine. For such a boon, how dare my heart aspire? Trembling, I bring its wealth of love to thee, No Persian worshipper of flaming fire E'er bent his god a more devoted knee. DYING BY BELL. Is this dying? round me gathers Such a silent, countless throng, Beaming on me smiles that beckon, As if I with them belong. This is dying! raise my pillow; Come and kiss me, mother dear; When I'm gone away you'll miss me, But for me weep not a tear. Is this dying? waters rolling Bear me on to yonder shore, Love to Christ my bark has freighted, Not a billow surges o'er. This is dying! pain, returning, Shows how nature clings to earth, While the prisoned soul is panting For the clime that gave it birth. Is this dying? strains of music Seem upon the air to float, Such could only come from angels, And I almost catch the note. Now my crown and harp are coming, Borne by seraphs' hands along, And a robe of whitest linen Clothes me like the angel throng. Is this dying? pain may writhe me, But has Death not lost his sting? And since Christ has gone to glory, Death is but a conquered king! TO THE GAND'HRAJ.[A] WRITTEN IN INDIA, BY MRS. E. LOCK. Oh! beautiful Gánd'hraj! sweet is thy breath; Thou art pale, too, as bearing the impress of Death, Like the velvety touch of the Kokila's[B] wing, Or the flakes that the snow-spirits playfully fling, Are thy robings unstained by a glance from the sun; To me thou art welcome, my beautiful one!