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Fear God, all-wise, omnipotent,

In him we live and have our being; He hath all love, all blessing sent -

Creator-Father-All-decreeing! Fear him, and love, and praise, and trust: Yet have of man no slavish fear; Remember kings, like thee, are dust, And at one judgment must appear. But virtue, and its holy fruits,

The poet's soul, the sage's sense, These are exalted attributes;

And these demand thy reverence. But, boy, remember this, e'en then Revere the gifts, but not the men! Obey thy parents; they are given

To guide our inexperienced youth; Types are they of the One in heaven,

Chastising but in love and truth! Keep thyself pure - sin doth efface

The beauty of our spiritual life: Do good to all men- live in peace

And charity, abhorring strife! The mental power which God has given, As I have taught thee, cultivate; Thou canst not be too wise for heaven,

If thou dost humbly consecrate Thy soul to God! and ever take

In his good book delight; there lies The highest knowledge, which will make Thy soul unto salvation wise! My little boy, thou canst not know

How strives my spirit fervently, How my heart's fountains overflow

With yearning tenderness for thee! God keep and strengthen thee from sin! God crown thy life with peace and joy, And give at last to enter in The city of his rest!

My boy Farewell-I have had joy in thee; I go to higher joy-oh, follow me! But now farewell!

Boy. Kind sir, good night! I will return with morning light. [He goes out.

[The Poor Scholar sits for some time as in meditation, then rising and putting away all his books, except the Bible, he sits down again.


I need not blind philosophy, nor dreams
Of speculating men, entangling truth

In cobweb sophistry, away with them—
One word read by that child is worth them all!
-The business of my life is finished now
With this day's work. I have dismissed the class
For the last time I am alone with death!
To-morrow morn, they will inquire for me,
And learn that I have solved the last, great problem.
This pale, attenuate frame they may behold,
But that which loves, and hopes, and speculates,
They will perceive no more. Mysterious being!

Life cannot comprehend thee, though thou showest
Thyself by all the functions of our life-
"Tis death-death only, which is the great teacher!
Awful instructor! he doth enter in

The golden rooms of state, and all perforce
Teach there its proud, reluctant occupant;
He doth inform in miserable dens

The locked-up soul of sordid ignorance
With his sublimest knowledge! he hath stolen
Gently, not unawares, into the chamber
Of the Poor Scholar, like a sober friend
Who doth give time for ample preparation!
He hath dealt kindly with me, giving first
Yearnings for unimaginable good,
Which the world's pleasure could not satisfy;
And lofty aspiration, that lured on

The ardent soul as the sun lures the eagle;
Next came a drooping of the outward frame,
Paleness and feebleness, and wasted limbs,
Which said, "prepare! thy days are numbered!"
And thus for months had this poor frame declined,
Wasting and wasting; yet the spirit intense
Growing more clear, more hourly confident,
As if its disenthralment had begun!

Schol. Now, now I need them not, I've done with Some irremediable woe befals!

Oh, I should long to die!
To be among the stars, the glorious stars;

To have no bounds to knowledge; to drink deep
Of living fountains - to behold the wise,
The good, the glorified! to be with God,

And Christ, who passed through death that I might


Oh I should long for death, but for one tie,
One lingering tie that binds me to the earth!
My mother! dearest, kindest, best of mothers!
What do I owe her not? all that is great,
All that is pure all that I have enjoyed
Of outward pleasure, or of spiritual life,

I have derived from her! has she not laboured
Early and late for me? first through the years
Of sickly infancy- then by her toil
Maintained the ambitious scholar-overpaid
By what men said of him! Oh thou untired,
True heart of love, for thee I hoped to live;
To pay thee back thy never-spent affection;
To fill my father's place, and make thine age
As joyful as thou mad'st my passing youth!
Alas! it may not be! thou hast to weep -
Thou hast to know that sickness of the heart
Which bows it to the dust, when some unlooked-for,

- Surely ere long thou wilt be at my side, For I did summon thee, and thy strong love Brooks not delay! Alas, thou knowest not It was to die within thy holy arms That I have asked thy presence! Oh! come, come, Thou most beloved being, bless thy son, And take one comfort in his peaceful death!

[A slight knocking is heard at the door, and the Philosopher enters. Philos. Well, my young friend, I've looked in to inquire

After your health. I saw your class depart,
And would have conference with you once again.

Schol. To-night I must decline your friendship, sir. Just tottering on eternity! Delusion,

'Tis all delusion! while my soul abhorred, My heart was wounded at the traitorous act!

I am so weak I cannot talk with you
On controversial points ever again.
Besides, my faith brings such a holy joy,
Such large reward of peace, why would you shake it?
Or is it now a time for doubts and fears,
When my soul's energy should be concentred
For one great trial? See you not, e'en now,
The spectre death is with me?


Cheer up, friend.
It is the nature of all sickness thus
To bring death near to the imagination,
Even as a telescope doth show the moon
Just at our finger-ends without decreasing
The actual distance. Come, be not so gloomy;—
You have no business to be solitary;

A cheerful friend will bring back cheerfulness.
Have you perused the books I left with you?
Schol. I have, and like them not!
Are they not full of lofty argument
And burning eloquence? For a strong soul,
Baptized in the immortal wells of thought,
They must be glorious food!

Indeed! indeed!

Schol. Pardon me, sir, They are too specious; - they gloss over error With tinsel covering which is not like truth. Oh! give them not to young and ardent minds They will mislead, and baffle and confound: Besides, among the sages whom you boast of, With their proud heathen virtues, can ye find A purer, loftier, nobler character;

More innocent, and yet more filled with wisdom,
Fuller of high devotion- -more heroic

Than the Lord Jesus-dignified yet humble;
Warring 'gainst sin, and yet for sinners dying?
Philos. Well; pass the men, what say you to the


Schol. And where is the Utopian code of morals
Equal to that which a few words set forth
Unto the Christian. do ye so to others
As ye would they should do unto yourselves."
And where, among the fables of their poets,
Which you pretend veil the divinest truths,
Find you the penitent prodigal coming back
Unto his father's bosom; thus to show
God's love, and our relationship to him?
Where do they teach us in our many needs
To lift up our bowed, broken hearts to God,
And call him "Father?"-Leave me as I am!
I am not ignorant, though my learning lie
In this small book-nor do I ask for more!
Philos. But have you read the parchments?
All of them.
Philos. And what impression might they make
upon you?

For knowing as I do your graceful mind,
And your profound research beyond your years,
I am solicitous of your approval.

Schol. I cannot praise-I cannot say one word In commendation of your misspent labours. Oh, surely it was not a friendly part To hold these gorgeous baits before a soul

Philos. Come, come, my friend, this is mere declamation;

You have misunderstood both them and me! Point out the errors- you shall find me ever Open unto conviction.


See my state-
A few short hours, and I must be with God;
And yet you ask me to evolve that long
Entanglement of subtlest sophistry!
This is no friendly part: but I conjure you,
Give not your soul to vain philosophy:
The drooping Christian at the hour of death
Needs other, mightier wisdom than it yields.
Oh, though I am but young, and you are old,
Grant me the privilege of a dying man,
To counsel you in love!
Enough, enough!
I see that you are spent. I have too long
Trespassed upon your time. But is there nought
That I can serve you in? Aspire you not
To win esteem by study? I will speak
Unto the primest scholars throughout Europe
In your behalf. All universities

Will heap upon you honours at my asking.

Schol. There was a time these things had been a

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Philos. Nay, I must serve you! Let me but con- Full of redeeming knowledge, making wise


Unto salvation, and the holy spring

Of all divine philosophy- and thou poor dust,
For which the soul of man is often sold;

Unto your body's ease. This wretched room,
And its poor pallet - would you not desire
A lighter, airier, more commodious chamber,
Looking out to the hills; and where the shine
Of the great sun might enter — where sweet odours,
And almost spiritual beauty of fair flowers
Might gratify the sense-and you might fall
Gracefully into death, in downy ease?
Speak, and all this is yours!


Here will I die!

Here have I lived-here from my boyhood lived;
These naked walls are like familiar faces,

I will go hence, and send you an attendant.

Schol. I cannot take your gold, I want it not.
My sickness is beyond the aid of man;
And soon, even now, I did expect my mother.
Philos. [affecting sorrow.] My dear young friend, I
have to ask your pardon;
The letter that I promised to deliver,
I did forget-indeed I gave it not!

Schol. How have I trusted to a broken reed!
Oh mock me not with offers of your friendship,
Say not that thou would serve me!

[The Philosopher goes out, abashed. The scholar falls back into his chair, exhausted; after some time recovering, he faintly raises himself. Tis night-fall now-and through the uncurtained window

And that poor pallet has so oft given rest

To my o'erwearied limbs, there will I die!

God comfort her poor heart, and heal its wounds,

Philos. But you do need physicians-here is gold, Which will bleed fresh when she shall break this seal. I know the scholar's fee is scant enough!

I see the stars; there is no moon to-night.
Here then I light my lamp for the last time;
And ere that feeble flame has spent itself,
A soul will have departed!

Yet wast thou not by evil traffic won,
Nor got by fraud, nor wrung from poverty —
God blessed the labourer while he toiled for thee,
And may'st thou bless the widow!-lie thou there-
I shall not need you more. I am departing
To the fruition of the hope of one,

And where the other cannot get admittance!
And now a few words will explain the rest:-

Let me now Close my account with life; and to affection, And never-cancelled duty, give their rights:

Oh my mother-Thy
Poor, broken-hearted one, I shall not see thee!
[He covers his face for a moment, then
rises up with sudden energy.
Whoe'er you are, and for what purpose come,
I know not-you have troubled me too long —
But something in my spirit, from the first,
Told me that you were evil; and my thought
Has often inly uttered the rebuke,
"Get thee behind me, Satan!" Leave me now-
Leave me my lonely chamber to myself,
And let me die in peace!

[He writes a few words, which he encloses with them, and making all into a packet, seals them up.

Schol. Almighty God! look down

Upon thy feeble servant! strengthen him!
Give him the victor's crown,
And let not faith be dim!

Oh, how unworthy of thy grace,
How poor, how needy, stained with sin!
How can I enter in

[Shortly after this is done, he becomes sud

denly palera convulsive spasm passes over him; when he recovers, he slowly rises, and kneels upon his pallet-bed.

kingdom, and behold thy face!
Except thou hadst redeemed me, I had gone
Without sustaining knowledge to the grave!
For this I bless thee, oh thou Gracious One,
And thou wilt surely save!

I bless thee for the life which thou hast crowned
With never-ending good;

For pleasures that were found

Like wayside flowers in quiet solitude.

I bless thee for the love that watch'd o'er me
Through the weak years of infancy,
That has been, like thine everlasting truth,
The guide, the guardian-angel of my youth.
Oh, Thou that didst the mother's heart bestow,
Sustain it in its woe,

For mourning give it joy, and praise for heaviness!
[He falls speechless upon the bed.
His mother enters hurriedly.
Mother. Alas, my son! and am I come too late?
Oh, Christ! can he be dead?

Schol. [looking up faintly.] Mother, is't thou? It is! who summoned thee, dear mother?

Mother. A little boy, the latest of thy class; He left these walls at sunset, and came back With me e'en now. He told me of thy words,

[He opens his Bible and inscribes it. And of thy pallid cheek and trembling hand;—

Sorrowing for all, but sorrowing most because
Thou saidst he would behold thy face no more!

Schol. My soul doth greatly magnify the Lord
For his unmeasured mercies! -and for this
Great comfort, thy dear presence! I am spent-
The hand of death is on me! Ere the sun

This I return to thee, my dearest mother,
Thy gift at first, and now my last bequest;
And these poor earnings, dust upon the balance
Compared with the great debt I owe to thee,
Are also thine-would I had more to give!
There lie you, side by side.

He lays a small sum of money with the Bible. Lightens the distant mountains, I shall be
Thou blessed book,
Among the blessed angels! Even now

I see as 't were heaven opened, and a troop
Of beautiful spirits waiting my release!

Mother. My son! my son! and thou so young, so None are retrieveless; none are utterly alien to good,


save the victim of avarice; for when did the soul, abandoned to this vice, feel misgivings? when did it feel either pity or love? or when did it do one good thing, or repent of one evil thing? It will strip without remorse, the fatherless, the widow, nay even the very sanctuary of God! Avarice is the Upas of the soul-no green thing flourishes below it, no bird of heaven flies over it; and the dew and the rain, and the virtues of the earth, become pestilential because of it! It shall be the love of gold which shall be my next temptation."

So well-beloved, alas, must thou depart!
Oh, rest thy precious head within mine arms,
My only one!-Thou wast a son indeed!
Schol. Mother, farewell! I hear the heavenly

They call!-I cannot stay: farewell-farewell!

Choir of Spiritual Voices.

No more sighing,

No more dying,

Come with us, thou pure and bright!

Time is done,

Joy is won,

Come to glory infinite!
Hark! the angel-songs are pealing!
Heavenly mysteries are unsealing,

Come and see, oh come and see!
Here the living waters pour,
Drink and thou shalt thirst no more,
Dweller in eternity!

No more toiling - no more sadness!
Welcome to immortal gladness,

Beauty and unending youth!
Thou that hast been deeply tried,
And like gold been purified,

Come to the eternal truth!
Pilgrim towards eternity,
Tens of thousands wait for thee!
Come, come!

Achzib was surprised at the ill success of his attempt upon the Poor Scholar. He was humiliated to feel how powerfully he had been rebuked by one comparatively a youth-one who was poor, and who had so little knowledge of men. It was before the authority of virtue he had shrunk, but he had never believed till that moment, that virtue possessed such authority; and almost confounded, he walked forth from the door of the Poor Scholar into the fields that surrounded the city.

Achzib had done unwisely in making too direct an attack. The integrity of principle may be undermined, but is seldom taken by storm.

When Achzib had duly pondered upon the cause of his failure, his desire was only redoubled to make a fresh attempt. "I will neither choose a dying man, a scholar, nor one of inflexible virtue," said he, "and yet my triumph shall be signal and complete." He thought over the baits for human souls-loveambition-pleasure; but all these he rejected. "For," said he, "is not avarice more absorbingly, more hopelessly cruel than all these? The lover may be fierce, ungovernable, extravagant; still is the passion in itself amiable. The man of ambition may wade through blood to a kingdom; yet even in his career, give evidence of good and great qualities. The votary of pleasure, though he sacrifice health, wealth,

talents, and friends, yet has the moments when the soul, reacting upon itself, prays to be disenthralled.







Time occupied, one-and-twenty years.


A green hill overlooking a broad valley, in the centre of which, among a few old trees, stands a noble mansion of grey stone; a fine lake appears in the winding of the valley, and the hill-sides are scattered with a few worthless old trees, the remnants of woods which have been felled.-Thomas of Torres comes forward, and throws himself on the grass.

Thomas. That was my home-the noble hall of
Torres !

Mine were those meadows-yon bright lake was


Where when a boy I fished, and swam, and hurled
Smooth pebbles o'er its surface; those green hills
Were mine, and mine the woods that clothed them-
This was my patrimony! a fair spot,
Than which this green and pleasant face of earth
Can show none fairer! With this did descend
An honourable name-the lord of Torres!
Without a blot on its escutcheon,
An unimpeachable and noble name,
Till it descended to a fool like me -
A spendthrift fool, who is become a proverb!

My father was a good and quiet man
He wedded late in life; and I was born
The child of his old age; my mother's face
I knew not, saving in its gilded frame,
Where, in the chamber of her loving husband,
It hung before his bed. My father died
When I was in my nonage. Marvellous pains,
Reading of books, study, and exercise,

Made me, they said, a perfect gentleman;
Such was the lord of Torres three years since!
He rode, he ran, he hunted, and he hawked,
And all exclaimed, “a gallant gentleman!"
He had his gay companions- what of that?
They said that youth must have its revelries.
He laughed, he sung, he danced, he drank his wine,
And all declared, “ pleasant gentleman!"
They came to him in need-his many friends-
Money he had in plenty, it was theirs!

He paid their debts; he gave them noble gifts;
He feasted them; he said, "they are my friends,
And what I have is their's!" and they exclaimed,
"Oh, what a noble, generous gentleman!"
He had his friends too, of another sort-
Fair women that seduced him with their eyes,-
For these he had his fetes; his pleasant shows;
His banquetings in forest solitudes,
Beneath the green boughs, like the sylvan gods:
And these repaid him with sweet flatteries,
And with bewitching smiles and honeyed words

Get money on them!" Ah, poor thoughtless fool, He listened to their counsels! - Feasts and gifts, And needy friends, again have made him bare! "Cut down thy woods!" said they. He cut them down ;

And then his wants lay open to the day,
And people said "this thriftless lord is poor!"
This touched his pride, and he grew yet more lavish.
"Come to my heart," said he, "my faithful friends;
We'll drink and laugh, to show we yet can spend !"
-"The woods are felled; the money is all spent;
What now remains? - The land's as good as gone,
The usurer doth take its yearly rent!"
So spake the lord again unto his friends:
"Sell house and all!" exclaimed the revellers.
The young lord went to his uneasy bed
A melancholy man. The portraits old
Looked from their gilded frames as if they spoke
Silent upbraidings-all seemed stern but one,
That youthful mother, whose kind eye and smile
Appeared to say, Return, my son, return!

This was a jeweller, and must be paid;
This was a tailor-this had sold perfumes,
This silks, and this confectionery and wine-
They must-they must be paid-they would be paid!

The lord of Torres is a thoughtful man:
His days are full of care, his nights of fear;
He heedeth not which way his feather sits;
He wears the velvet jerkin for the silk;
He hath forgot the roses in his shoes;

He drinks the red wine and forgets the pledge;
He hears the jest, and yet he laugheth not:
Then said his friends "Our lord hath lost his wits,
Let's leave him ample space to look for them!"
They rode away, and left his house to silence;
The empty rooms echoed the closing doors ;-
The board was silent! silent was the court,
Save for the barking of the uneasy hounds.
Soon spread those friends, the news of his distress!
And then again a crowd was at his doors:

"The lord of Torres is a ruined man!"

So said the cunning lawyer;-and they sold
Horses and hounds and hawks, and then they said
The house itself must go! The silent lord
Rose up an angry man: "Fetch me my horse!"
Said he; for now a thought had crossed his mind
Wherein lay hope.- Alas! he had no horse-
The lord of Torres walked a-foot that day!
"I'll seek my friends!" said he, "my right good

The lord of Torres did outgo his rents;
His many friends had ta'en his ready cash;

“What then!” said they, "thy lands are broad and For a vain bauble! From another's lips


They'll help me in my need, each one of them."
He sought their doors this saw him through the

blind, And bade his valet say, he was abroad: This spoke him pleasantly, and gave him wine, And pledged him in the cup, his excellent friend! But when he told the purport of his visit, He shook his head, and said he had no gold, Even while he paid a thousand pieces down

He heard the mocking words of "spendthrift,” "beggar."

The lord of Torres turned upon his heel,
And muttered curses while his heart was sad.
"There's yet another friend," said he, "beloved
Beyond them all; for while I held them churls,
This was the chosen brother of my heart!"
The lord of Torres stood beside his gate;
There was a show as for a festival.
"I come in a good hour!" said he to one
Who stood hard by-" what means this merry show?"
"How! know you not," said he, "this very morn
The noble Count hath wedded the fair daughter
Of Baron Vorm!" The young lord's cheek is white,
His brain doth reel - he holds against the gate,
And hides his face that none may see his tears!
He back returned unto his fathers' house,
And entering in his chamber, barred the door,
And passed a night of sleepless agony!

The lord of Torres was an altered man:
A woe had shadowed o'er his countenance;
His speech was low, and tremulous, and sad
He bore a wounded heart within his breast.
Then came his aged steward with streaming eyes,
And gave to him a little bag of gold;
"Take it," he said, "I won it in thy service,
And in the service of thy noble father!"
The lord of Torres took the old man's hand,
And wept as weeps a child; his heart was touched.
"Take back thy gold," said he; "I wasted mine,
Yet will I not expend thy honest gains:-
Friend, take it back-I will not touch thy gold!"

The house was sold-the lands, the lakes were sold,
And debts and charges swallowed up the price;
And now he is a landless, homeless man,-
He is no lord, he hath no heritage!
Thomas of Torres, get thee from this place,

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