THE POOR MAN'S HYMN.
WHY for a hoard of gold should I,
Like yonder squalid miser, care –
Of for the purple vestments sigh,
That sting the monarch’s soul with care?
Can the mean pittance of their gems,
Their stately ships that ride the sea,
Their sceptres or their diadems,
Add or take aught away from me?
These are my wants – a simple scroll:
My food, my raiment,
and a hearth;
Where, with the chosen of my soul,
I proudly rise above the earth.
There are my riches – in the values;
The hill-sides, too, are gemmed with gold;
And whispering angels on the gales,
Bring all that’s needful to my fold.
Not while the azure sky is bright
And sparkling whither way I turn,
While all the earth is robed in light
From rays that heaven-reflected burn; -
Not while these flowers perpetual spring
Beneath the dewdrop and the sun,
Would I exchange with haughtiest king.
Or ask the crown that crime has won.
No! for enough is all I care –
To delve or sorrow as I go;
And I would always hope to share
That little with the loved below.
Kings to the dust their heads must bow:
When life ebbs out, ‘mid grief and pain,
I tear no jewels from my brow,
Nor weep to meet mine own again.
C. D. S.