An angel came from the courts of gold, With gifts and tidings manifold; With blessings many to crown the one Whose work of life was the noblest done. He came to a rich man's gilded door; Where a beautiful lady stood before His vision, fair as the saints are fair, With smile as sweet as the seraphs wear. He needed not to be told her life-- The pure young mother, the tender wife; He needed not to be told that she, In home of sorrow and poverty, Was giving wealth with a lavish hand; He thought her worthy in heaven to stand. "No! no!" a voice to the angel heart Spoke low: "Seek on in the busy mart." He found a door that was worn and old; The night was damp and the wind was cold. A pale-faced girl at her sewing bent; The midnight lamp to her features lent A paler look as she toiled the while, But yet the mouth had a restful smile. Doing her duty with honest pride; Breasting temptation on every side. "For her the blessings," the angel said, And touched with pity the girlish head. "No time nor money for alms has she, But duty is higher than charity." --Sarah Knowles Bolton. DUTIES I reach a duty, yet I do it not, And therefore see no higher; but, if done, My view is brightened and another spot Seen on my moral sun. For, be the duty high as angels' flight, Fulfill it, and a higher will arise E'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite-- Receding as the skies. And thus it is the purest most deplore Their want of purity. As fold by fold, In duties done, falls from their eyes, the more Of duty they behold. Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyes On duties crowding only to appal? No; duty is our ladder to the skies, And, climbing not, we fall. --Robert Leighton (1611-1684). WHAT SHE COULD "And do the hours step fast or slow? And are ye sad or gay? And is your heart with your liege lord, lady, Or is it far away?" The lady raised her calm, proud head, Though her tears fell, one by one: "Life counts not hours by joy or pangs, But just by duties done. "And when I lie in the green kirkyard, With the mould upon my breast, Say not that 'She did well--or ill,' Only, 'She did her best.'" --Dinah Maria Mulock Craik. UNWASTED DAYS The longer on this earth we live And weigh the various qualities of men, Seeing how most are fugitive Or fitful gifts at best, of now and then-- Wind-favored corpse-lights, daughters of the fen-- The more we feel the high, stern-featured beauty Of plain devotedness to duty, Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise, But finding amplest recompense For life's ungarlanded expense In work done squarely and unwasted days. --James Russell Lowell. TRIFLES THAT MAKE SAINTS