Yet still, unheeding the changeful light,
Old Aleck read on and on that night;
Sometimes lifting his eyes, as he read,
To the cob-webb'd rafters overhead;--
But at length he laid the book away,
And knelt by his broken stool to pray;
And something, I fancied, the old man said
About "_treasures in Heaven_" of which he'd read.
A wealthy merchant over the way
Sat in his lamp-light's steady ray,
Where many a volume richly bound
And heavily gilded was lying round.
One, with glittering clasps was there,
Embossed, and pictured, and wondrous fair;
But the printed words were the very same
As those I read by the flickering flame
That gave me light as I stooped to look
Into the old man's tattered book,
And I knew by the page's spotless white,
No hand had opened it yet to the light.
"_Treasures In Heaven_"!--what, rich man, heir
To countless thousands, your thoughts are--where?
With these _he_ read of?--No; ah, no!--
Over the storm-vexed waters they go,
Where stout ships buffet the blast to-night,
With never a glimmering star in sight!
Day fretted the east with its stormy gold,
But the turbulent ocean raged and rolled,
And dashed on many a rock girt shore
The wrecks of ships that would sail no more,--
Lifting, at times, to the topmost wave
Ghastly faces no hand could save,--
And then, far down with his treasures vain,
Burying each in the depths again.
Pages:
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99