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'T is done; 't was well: and now depart,
Ye band of brothers true:

There's not a virtue of the heart
But dwells with each of you.

'T is yours to stay the sinking soul,
Despairing of relief;

And yours, when tears of sorrow roll,
To stanch the fount of grief.

And he who here is lain so low —
You took him by the hand,

Though stranger garb and accent slow
Bespoke a foreign land.

He was a man; and ’t was enough.
He travelled far that day;

The rocky road was very rough;
He fainted by the way:

• And none were near to him allied:

He came from o'er the sea:
When friendless thus, by the roadside
He moaned in misery.

Too poor to pay, with Want he strove; You soothed his vain alarms:

Too weak to walk, with Truth and Love, YoU bore him in your arms.

By turns you bathed his brow so pale,
When throbbing pains would come;

By turns you heard his mournful tale
Of loving friends at home.

Oh home ! oh home !— that heartfelt word—
Its fulness none may know,

Until, by some strong passion stirred,
Afar from home they go. -

And poor Le Roy a mother had,
And wife, and prattling child;

He named their name with spirit sad —
Betimes with ravings wild.

You took their place around his bed,
And held the cordial nigh;

And when fell back his lifeless head,
You closed his glazing eye.

You sent the tidings of his death
To friends beyond the wave;

And when was gone his latest breath,
You robed him for the grave.

'T is done; 't was well: and now depart,
Ye brothers tried and true:

There 's not a virtue of the heart
But dwells with each of you.

“”T was very kind,” said Lucy Lynne,
“When he was sore in need,

From the highway to take him in ;
'Twas very kind indeed.”

“'T is but our duty so to do;
'T is the Creator's plan;

And yet, of all who live, how few
Assist their fellow-man?

“I do remember, when a child,
Dear Lucy, such as you —

About your age, and just as wild,
Mayhap as thoughtless too,

“Full ripened was the yellow rye;
To harvest all were gone :

*T was noon, the broiling sun was high,
And I was all alone.

“Now who is at the wicket-gate,
So lightly knocking there 2

It must be little idle Kate —
But I’ve no time to spare.

“Another and a louder knock 1–
To her I will not go:

I may not stop my work to talk;
I have so much to do.

“‘Come in — come in ;' I said no more,
Nor to the window ran:

A step was heard, and in the door
There stood a tall, strange man.

“‘Through scorching roads of choking dust
I've come, a weary way;

I come to beg a crumb or crust; –
No food I’ve had to day.”

“These saddening words he slowly said;
His voice and air. were bland;

Uncovered was his noble head;
A staff was in his hand.

“‘A drop of cooling water, miss —
I pray thee bring it quick,

By all thy hopes of heavenly bliss—
For I am deathly sick ''

“I sprang to help him to a seat;
I feared his strength would fail —

He tottered feebly on his feet,
And looked so very pale. .

“‘Now rest thee there:’ then to the spring,
With hurried step, I flew,

And thence the dripping wave did bring,
So grateful to his view.

“And food I brought for him — the best –
And warmed a cup of tea,

Which he partook with hungry zest;
And thus revived was he.

“He seemed a gentlemanly man ;
His clothes, though plain, were neat;

And o'er his comely face there ran
Expressions sad but sweet.

“‘Come hither now, my pretty maid,
I fain would speak to thee;’

To him I ran, nor felt afraid,
Though he was strange to me.

““God’s blessings on thy gentle head,
To shield thee night and day !

You gave the weary wanderer bread:
For thee his lips will pray.

“‘If all on earth were like to you,
And from their store would give,

With hand as free and heart as true,
'T were pleasure then to live.

“‘My darling little girl at home !— She calls aloud for me! —

And when at length to her I come,

To her I'll talk of thee.

“‘She is too poor to spread a feast,
Like you, with lavish hand;

But still like you, she may at least
Have kindness at command.

“‘For e'en a cold, dry crust of bread,
When with compassion given,

Brings blessings on the giver's head,
And opes the gates of heaven.

“‘Now fare thee well' I must away:"
Then back he looked, and smiled :

I had not sense to bid him stay;
For I was but a child.

“But I did watch him as he went,
Supported by his stick;

His gait was slow and slightly bent; —
'T was plain-he still was sick.

“The village church, I well may say, Was half a mile or more,

Adown the road which wound its way Apast our cottage door.

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