There was a ship went down last night,-- A good ship and a fair; A costly freight within her lay, And many a soul was there! The night-black storm was over her, And ’neath the caverned wave: In all her strength she perished, Nor skill of man could save. The cry of her great agony Went upward to the sky; She perished in her strength and pride, Nor human aid was nigh. But thou, O stormy Peterel, Went’st screaming o’er the foam;-- Are there no tidings from that ship Which thou canst carry home? Yes! He who raised the tempest up, Sustained each drooping one; And God was present in the storm, Though human aid was none! THE POOR MAN’S GARDEN. Ah yes, the poor man’s garden! It is great joy to me, This little, precious piece of ground Before his door to see! The rich man has his gardeners,-- His gardeners young and old; He never takes a spade in hand, Nor worketh in the mould. It is not with the poor man so,-- Wealth, servants, he has none; And all the work that’s done for him Must by himself be done. All day upon some weary task He toileth with good will; And back he comes, at set of sun, His garden-plot to till. The rich man in his garden walks, And ’neath his garden trees; Wrapped in a dream of other things, He seems to take his ease. One moment he beholds his flowers, The next they are forgot: He eateth of his rarest fruits As though he ate them not. It is not with the poor man so:-- He knows each inch of ground, And every single plant and flower That grows within its bound. He knows where grow his wall-flowers, And when they will be out; His moss-rose, and convolulus That twines his pales about. He knows his red sweet-williams; And the stocks that cost him dear,-- That well-set row of crimson stocks, For he bought the seed last year. And though unto the rich man The cost of flowers is nought, A sixpence to a poor man Is toil, and care, and thought. And here is his potatoe-bed, All well-grown, strong, and green; How could a rich man’s heart leap up At anything so mean! But he, the poor man, sees his crop, And a thankful man is he, For he thinks all through the winter How rich his board will be. And how his merry little ones Beside the fire will stand, Each with a large potatoe In a round and rosy hand. The rich man has his wall-fruits, And his delicious vines; His fruit for every season! His melons and his pines. The poor man has his gooseberries; His currants white and red; His apple and his damson tree, And a little strawberry-bed.