SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. * * * * * WHAT WAS HIS CREED? "Religion relates to life, and the life of religion is to do good."--SWEDENBORG. He left a load of anthracite In front of a poor woman's door. When the deep snow, frozen and white, Wrapped street and square, mountain and moor. That was his deed. He did it well. "What was his creed?" I cannot tell. Blessed "in his basket and his store," In sitting down and rising up; When more he got, he gave the more, Withholding not the crust and cup. He took the lead In each good task. "What was his creed?" I did not ask. His charity was like the snow, Soft, white, and silent in its fall; Not like the noisy winds that blow From shivering trees the leaves,--a pall For flowers and weed, Drooping below. "What was his creed?" The poor may know. He had great faith in loaves of bread For hungry people, young and old, Hope he inspired; kind words he said To those he sheltered from the cold. For we should feed As well as pray. "What was his creed?" I cannot say. In words he did not put his trust; His faith in words he never writ; He loved to share his cup and crust With all mankind who needed it. In time of need A friend was he. "What was his creed?" He told not me. He put his trust in heaven, and he Worked well with hand and head; And what he gave in charity Sweetened his sleep and daily bread. Let us take heed, For life is brief. What was his creed--What his belief? ANONYMOUS. * * * * * THE PHILOSOPHER TOAD. Down deep in the hollow, so damp and so cold, Where oaks are by ivy o'ergrown, The gray moss and lichen creep over the mould, Lying loose on a ponderous stone. Now within this huge stone, like a king on his throne, A toad has been sitting more years than is known; And, strange as it seems, yet he constantly deems The world standing still while he's dreaming his dreams,-- Does this wonderful toad in his cheerful abode In the innermost heart of that flinty old stone, By the gray-haired moss and the lichen o'ergrown.