Thro’ the tapestried halls of the mansion The ghost of dead honor may glide— A sense of life’s holiest joys departed In the lordliest castle abide. Tho’ the chalice wealth drains should be golden, No sweeter to him is the draught Than the cup with the sparkle of water, That humble contentment has quaffed. Earth’s mines, and her jewel-strewn caverns, With the station that title confers, All poured at her feet, would not purchase The treasure a mother counts hers. Ay, hid in your home you will find them— Love’s riches—vast treasures untold; More precious than worldly possessions, Though counted, by millions, in gold. * * * * * Then let not the demon of envy E’er enter the soul to enthrall; The Father is tenderly watching— Is keeping a record of all. Rewards we have missed in our earth-life We’ll find in that mansion above, All decked with the beauties of Heaven And lighted with Infinite Love. Complainings. Never a dove came to nestle by me, But green-eyed Envy was there to see— Soiling its plumage of spotless white, Making it vile as a raven of night. Never a rose in my garden was born, But was surrounded by many a thorn. Never a sweet but was mingled with gall— And freedom, forever, is shadowed by thrall;— Fruit, that looked luscious while hanging in view, Is blighted ere ripe, by a blistering dew; Gold, that we gather and count as a joy, Has little of pleasure and much of alloy; Jealously burns, in her caustical fire, My tenderest hope, with malevolent ire— Ashes, of all, she has strewn in my path, And mocks at my pain with demoniac laugh. But hush thy complaining, my heart, and be still— If Heaven, our measure, with blessings should fill, How soon would the soul with satiety cloy, And life would be robbed of delightsome employ,— Incentive would sleep, and all motive would die, If needs of our nature should utter no cry; But lacking the goal our ambition would gain Arouses our powers—gives strength to attain. Our grandest achievements have birth in the throes Of Penury’s labor; and multiplied woes But nerve us to action—resist and endure, And highest endeavor gives aid to secure Success to the valiant in the struggle for right— Though failure may sometimes descend like a blight— Oft failure is blessing, that’s sent in disguise To turn us from groveling to gaze on the skies. Then learn through each trial, my soul, to rejoice, And e’en from the cloud will Compassion’s own voice Be heard thro’ the gloom, in response to your cry, “Fear not the tempest, my child, it is I.” Questionings. When the pallid lids have fallen O’er the eyes in dreamless sleep— Eyes that wake no more with watching Nor in loneliness will weep, Will a touch of pity soften— Warm that unimpassioned gaze? For a moment will affection Hallow all their clouded days?