gaze, while all the lesser glories of earth fade away and are lost in its splendors! These are the trophies of benevolence: far nobler than were ever gained by the conquests of an Alexander, a Cesar, or a Bonaparte; greener laurels than ever composed the crown or decked the brow of the mightiest conqueror. These good works have perfumed the memory of their doers, and erected to their names and their praise a monument more enduring than the pyramids of Egypt: for those, beneath the wasting hand of time, shall moulder away, shall crumble down to dust, and bury for ever in their ruins the names and achievements of those who reared those monuments of pride and folly; but the fame of those and other illustrious benefactors of mankind shall live till the heavens be no more, and the histories of the world are consumed in the general conflagration. The conscious pleasure derived from doing good is another strong incentive to the performance of good works. What employment so agreeable, what feelings so pleasant, what work so congenial to a benevolent mind, as that of doing good to our fellow-men? It is that which maketh rich, and bringeth no sorrow. It is that virtue which carries with it its own reward. What purer joy can spring up in the breast than that poured forth into the bosom by the perennial stream of benevolence running through the soul, and diffusing its influence over all its faculties? How happy is that man whose heart is warmed with the genial glow of affectionate sympathy for the wretched about him! Never does he realize a loftier dignity, feel a nobler elevation, or enjoy a more sublime and refined pleasure, than when wiping the falling tear from the cheek of sorrow, binding up the broken-hearted, soothing the sighs of the widow and the orphan, and bearing with an angel's hand the cup of consolation to the sons of wo. Compared with this, how grovelling and insignificant is the pleasure of the proudest monarch seated upon the throne of empire, and swaying his iron sceptre over trembling millions! Compared with this, how low and unhallowed is that of the greatest conqueror returning from the field of victory and of blood, amid the roar of cannon and the shouts of triumph! Compared with this, how mean and sordid is that of the richest miser standing upon his heaps of gold, or seated amid his coffers of treasure! To their possessor none of these can bring comfort in the hour of the last extremity. When consolation is most needed, they all stand aloof and show their impotence. Or if they awaken reflection in such an hour, it is only to increase his misery by harrowing the mind with indescribable emotions. The thought of leaving them serves but to fill him with distress, and plant thorns in his dying pillow. the pleasure of doing good is mingled with no alloy. It is pure and unsullied as the mountain-snow. On his deeds of beneficence the good man can look back with joy, as so many gems set in the crown of his reward, to cheer But him on his way, and illume his footsteps in his descending course. And when about to close his eyes on time and things, what tongue can tell, what language can express the pleasure of seeing the poor and the afflicted, to whom he has done good, standing around his dying couch, pouring forth their tears and benedictions, as the last sad tokens of their gratitude for the kindness he has bestowed upon them? And how pleasing the reflection, that, when he has taken leave of this world, he is not forgotten, and that his memory is embalmed in the widow's bosom, and his grave bedewed by the orphan's tears! How happy the thought that his funeral obsequies will not consist in the empty and heartless eulogiums of hireling orators, but in the honors which consist in the sighs and tears of those whom he has relieved; of the poor whom he has supplied; of the straying whom he has reclaimed; of the sorrowing whose wounds he has bound up, and whose tears he has wiped away! These are the record of his good works, of his deeds of benevolence—written, not in stone, but upon the imperishable tablets of the soul; these are the crown of his glory and the monument of his fame. And these, standing upon his urn, and pointing to his ashes, tell the passing traveller-"There lies the man who, when I was hungry, fed me; when I was naked, clothed me; when I was sick, visited me; and when I wandered from the way, followed me with his kindness, and led my erring feet into the path of virtue and of peace." SAG HARBOR, L. I., February, 1846. THE PAUPER'S CURSE. BY F. J. OTTERSON. On a wintry night, in a marble porch, A starving woman stood; While flickered and flared the passing torch, As it swung in the tempest rude— While the traveller, wrapped in his woollens, quivered As he faced the frozen snow This starving woman stood and shivered, The personification of wo. Through the long-worn dress her arms were seen, Like the skeleton arms of Death; They were purple with cold, and skinny and lean, And over them oft her breath She feebly poured, for the piercing frost Was pricking the blue flesh sore; And anon she would gaze, in astonishment lost, At the silver that shone on the door And she grimly smiled o'er the devilry In the mansion of gold and sin! Then her thin lips parted, and, broken and low, Came words of a fearful mood: They parted to curse! Oh, Jesus! pardon The hungry and desperate woman; Thou knowest the weight of the poor one's burden, Hark to the terrible voice in your portal, And hide from the beldame's malice! |