Come, gentle reader, lend thine ear, And thou the simple truth shalt hear; And mark,--for here the moral lurks,-- Smith held to faith, but not to works; While Jones believed in both, and so, By faith and practice, made it go! Smith prayed, and straight sent in his bill, Expecting Heaven to tend his mill; And grumbled sore, whene'er he found That wheels ungreased would not go round. Not so with Jones--for, though as prayerful, To grease his wheels he e'er was careful, And healed, with ready stitch, each rent That ruthless time or tempest sent; And thus, by works, his faith expressed, Good neighbor Jones by Heaven was blessed. The Ideal and the Actual. My boat is on the bounding tide, Away, away from surge and shore; A waif upon the wave I ride, Without a rudder or an oar. Blow as ye list, ye breezes, blow-- The compass now is nought to me; Flow as ye will, ye billows, flow, If but ye bear me out to sea. Yon waving line of dusky blue, Where care and toil oppress the heart-- To thee I bid a long adieu, And smile to feel that thus we part. There let the sweating ploughman toil, The yearning miser count his gain, The fevered scholar waste his oil, But I am bounding o'er the main! How fresh these breezes to the brow-- How dear this freedom to the soul; Bright ocean, I am with thee now, So let thy golden billows roll! * * * * * But stay--what means this throbbing brain-- This heaving chest--these pulses quick? Oh, take me to the land again, _For I am very, very sick!_ The Golden Dream. In midnight dreams the Wizard came, And beckoned me away-- With tempting hopes of wealth and fame, He cheered my lonely way. He led me o'er a dusky heath, And there a river swept, Whose gay and glassy tide beneath, Uncounted treasure, slept. The wooing ripples lightly dashed Around the cherished store, And circling eddies brightly flashed Above the yellow ore. I bent me o'er the deep smooth stream, And plunged the gold to get,-- But oh! it vanished with my dream-- And I got dripping wet! O'er lonely heath and darksome hill, As shivering home I went, The mocking Wizard whispered shrill, 'Thou'dst better been content!' The Gipsy's Prayer. [Illustration: The Gipsy's Prayer] Our altar is the dewy sod-- Our temple yon blue throne of God: No priestly rite our souls to bind-- We bow before the Almighty Mind. Oh, Thou whose realm is wide as air-- Thou wilt not spurn the Gipsies' prayer: Though banned and barred by all beside, Be Thou the Outcast's guard and guide.