THE SPIRIT AND THE MUSE.

105

THE BLESSEDNESS OF POVERTY.

"The love of money is the root of all evil.”

Who would not rather for his lot
Have the poor peasant's humble cot,
Where, though his fare were scant and rude,
His days were spent in doing good,
Than

yon large house for his abode
Far from the love and peace of God,
Though every dainty decked the board,
Which earth and air and sea afford ?
Too often riches spoil the heart,
And make the man from God depart;
While gloating o'er the golden store,
And ever wishing it were more,
The

eye is dimmed, and cannot see
The glories of eternity.
What shameful deeds have not been done,

Prompted by gold, beneath the sun!
What falsehoods told! what forgeries!
What frauds! what foul conspiracies!
Thefts, murders, rapines, wars, and blood
Flowing in one continuous flood;

The bands of friendship cut in twain—
Prayers and entreaties all were vain-
The strong exulting in their might,
The weak man crushed, robbed of his right;
These left to pine with scarce a crust,
Those squandering gold as if 'twere dust:
No man can tell the countless crimes
Which gold has caused thousands of times.
Therefore it was that Jesus taught

That this world's riches were but naught;
He came not in great pomp and state,
He chose the poor man's low estate,
To them first preached his blessed word,
For them pronounced the great reward,
From them he took his faithful few,
Leagued with himself his work to do:
Who now the rich would idolize?
Or who the poor man dare despise ?
Such men have never Jesus known,

Jesus will never such men own;

Though in this world they pass for great,
Because they have a fine estate,

Because they happen to inherit
'Prizes of fortune, not of merit,'
Yet all so soon as they by fate
Have finished with this mortal state,
They're destitute and desolate,

Their abject spirits left to pine

Without one ray on them to shine,

While the poor souls, whom they were wont
To hold in very mean account,

Because they made it their chief pleasure
To seek the true and heavenly treasure,
No longer in their sorry plight,

Shine forth, like stars in dark of night.
Then seek not to be rich, my friend,
For this world's riches have an end,
And they, who in them put their trust,
Will find they've gotten nought but dust;
Lift up thine heart, lift up thine eyes,
Seek in the Heavens a lasting prize.

ILL-GOTTEN WEALTH.

"Woe to him that increaseth that which is not his! how long? and to him that ladeth himself with thick clay."

What hast thou here?

A goodly house and fair,

Wherein thou fondly thinkest to remain,
And reap the fruit of thine ill-gotten gain;
Have done;

Know'st thou not yet

Thy sun

Is almost set,

Thy mansion is the portal of the tomb;

And thou must enter soon the dark and dreadful gloom.

Thou hast great store

Of gold and silver ore,

But not one grain of it thou'lt take away,
Soon as thy soul doth quit its mortal clay ;
Hast thought

That all thy state

Is nought

Which seems so great,

If in the land, where flits the parted ghost, Houses, possessions, gold, nay, thou thyself art lost?

Make haste, thou fool,

Bring hither line and rule,

Build thee a habitation on the Rock,

Which shall endure the great and final shock,
When all

Of earth that's wrought

Must fall

And come to nought;

There fix thy dwelling, there lay up great store

Of that good treasure which doth last for evermore.