die,
    And widows’ tears may daily fall,
    And orphans’ voices daily call,—­
        Yet these are all in vain;
    The dealer sells, and glass by glass
    He tempts the man to ruin pass,
        And piles on high his slain. 
    His fellows fall by scores,—­what then? 
        He, being rich (though rich by fraud),
    Is honored by his fellow-men,
        Who bend the knee and call him “lord.”

      Again I turned;

      Enough I’d learned
    Of all the misery sin hath brought;
        I strove to leave the fearful spot,
        And wished the scene might be forgot,
    ’T was so with terror fraught.

      I wished to go,

      No more to know. 
    I turned me, but no guide stood there;
        Alone, I shrieked in wild dismay,
    When, lo! the vision passed away,—­
    I found me seated in my chair. 
    The morning sun was shining bright,
    Fair children gambolled in my sight;
    A rose-bush in my window stood,
        And shed its fragrance all around;
    My eye saw naught but fair and good,
        My ear heard naught but joyous sound. 
    I asked me, can it be on earth
    Such scenes of horror have their birth,
    As those that in my vision past,
    And on my mind their shadows cast? 
    Can it be true, that men do pour
        Foul poison forth for sake of gold? 
    And men lie weltering in their gore,
        Led on by that their brethren sold? 
    Doth man so bend the supple knee
        To Mammon’s shrine, he never hears
    The voice of conscience, nor doth see
        His ruin in the wealth he rears? 
    Such questions it were vain to ask,
        For Reason whispers, “It is so;”
    While some in fortune’s sunshine bask,
        Others lie crushed beneath their woe. 
    And men do sell, and men do pour,
        And for their gold return men death;
    Though wives and children them implore,
        With tearful eyes and trembling breath,
    And hearts with direst anguish riven,
        No more to sell,—­’t is all in vain;
    They, urged to death, by avarice driven,
        But laugh and turn to sell again.

JEWELS OF THE HEART.

    There are jewels brighter far
    Than the sparkling diamonds are;
    Jewels never wrought by art,—­
    Nature forms them in the heart! 
    Would ye know the names they hold
    Ah! they never can be told
    In the language mortals speak! 
    Human words are far too weak
    Yet, if you would really know
    What these jewels are, then go
    To some low, secluded cot,
    Where the poor man bears his lot! 
    Or, to where the sick and dying
    ’Neath the ills of life are sighing. 
    And if there some one ye see
    Striving long and patiently