Page:Pleasant Memories of Pleasant Lands.djvu/223

198 Curvets, and gambols like a playful fawn, Plucking with pride and wonder, here and there, Herbling or flower, o'er which the infant crows One moment, and the next, with chubby hand Rendeth in pieces like a conqueror. On went the cottage-group, and then there came A poor old man, unaided and alone, Clad in his almshouse 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.