On went the cottage-group, and then there came
A poor old man, unaided and alone,
Clad in his alms-house garments. Slow he moved
And painfully, nor sought the human eye
As if expectant of its sympathy.
He hath no children in his face to smile,
No friend to take him by the withered hand,
Yet looketh upward, and his feeble heart
Warms in the pleasant sunshine.
Yea, look up!—
The world hath dealt but harshly, and old Time,
That cunning foe, hath all thy nerves unstrung,
And made thy thin blood wintry. Yet look up;—
The pure, pure air is thine, the sun is thine,
And thou shalt rise above them, if thy soul
Cling to its Saviour's skirts. So be not sad
Or desolate in spirit, but hold on
A Christian's faithful journey to the land,
Where palsied limbs and wrinkles are unknown.
Monday, October 12, 1840.
The old Porter, in his lodge at the embattled gateway, was pleased to show the gigantic armor, and other relics, of Guy of Warwick, and to speak of his marvellous feats, and redoubtable valor.
Among these, his having slain a Saracen giant, and a wonderful dun cow, were not forgotten. "Here," said the narrator, "is his seething pot. It holds exactly 102 gallons." And warming as he proceeded, he told
