Think, if these peasants pined like him For pleasures they have not, How manifold would then have been The sorrows of their lot! But they, unshod, bareheaded too, Fed sparsely with coarse food, Go laughing on their gleesome way, As GOD’S bright creatures should. They are like flowers, springing up In some unkindly place, Yet full of all their colours rare, Their sweetness and their grace. They _are_ bright flowers, that spring to cheer E’en penury’s wilderness, And often with a swelling heart, Those human flowers I bless. Kind blessings on their bold, clear eyes, And elvish, unbound hair;-- And blessings on their laughter wild, Mid crags and moorlands bare! In autumn mornings forth they go With baskets to the wold, Some of wicker, some of rush, Some new, and many old. And over mountain, over glen, The merry creatures bound, On to the wide and boggy heaths, Where a thousand streamlets sound. The small bare legs all splash about, Heeding not cold nor wet, So long as busy eyes can see, And hands the treasure get. “_And after all this toil and moil, What profit win they thence?_”-- Perhaps a long day’s work may bring A few poor sordid pence. But more than hundreds to the rich Are pennies to the poor, And thankfully they seek and sell The Cranberries on the moor. _Louisa A. Twamley._ * * * * * The heart of kindness seldom sours or curdles; The cream of love is in it pure and sweet: With every charm that human nature girdles, And every grace of gentleness replete, The man who has a kindly heart is most In pattern like his LORD; for where the law Of kindness rules the heart, the virtues draw Together in companionship, and post Themselves around that citadel of love. The kindly man doth always kindly prove: He has a word of sweetness for the child-- Of pity for the poor--of sympathy For all who mourn; and truly glad is he When through his generous care some sorrowing face has smiled. There’s music ever in the kindly soul, For every deed of goodness done is like A chord set in the heart, and joy doth strike Upon it oft as memory doth unroll The immortal page whereon good deeds are writ; And Heaven gives nothing sweeter to the mind Than memories of the acts that bless our human kind. _MacKellar._ IVY.... _Constancy._