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That things seem great or small; and noblest they
Whose sympathies, with a capacious range,
Would own no limit to their fond embrace.
Yea, there, as in all else, doth Duty dwell
With happiness: for far the happiest he,
Who through the roughnesses of life preserves
His boyish feelings, and who sees the world,
Not as it is in cold reality,
A motley scene of struggle and of strife,
But tinted with the glow of bright romance:
For him the morning has its star; the sun,
Rising or setting, fires for him the clouds
With glory; flowers for him have tales,
Like those which, for a thousand nights and one,
Enchained the East; each season as it rolls
Strikes in his bosom its peculiar chord,
Yet each alike harmonious, to a heart
That vibrates ever in sweet unison:
Each scene hath its own influence, nor less
The frost that mimics each on pool or pane:
Delight flows in alike from calm or storm:
Delight flows in to him from nature's shows
Of hill and dale, swift river, or still lake:
To him the very winds are musical--
Have harmony AEolian, wild and sweet;
The stream sings to its banks, and the wild birds
To Echo--viewless tell-tale of the rocks--
Who in the wantonness of love responds.

Gifts, in the eye of Heaven, not always bear
The marketable value stamped by man
Upon them,--else the poor were truly poor,
The willing spirit destitute indeed.
In other balance are our actions weighed
By Him who sees the heart in all its thoughts;
Both what it wills and cannot, what it tries
And doth,--and with what motive, for what end.
Clouds clothe them like realities, and shine
Even so to human eyes; yet, not the less
Are only mockeries of the things they seem,
And melt as we survey them. Let us not
The shadow for the substance take, the Jay
For the true Bird of Paradise. A crust
Dealt, by the poor man, from his daily loaf,
To the wayfarer, poorer than himself--
A cup of water, in the Saviour's name
Proffered, with ready hand, to thirsting lips,--
Seem trifles in themselves, yet weigh for wine,
And gems, and gold, and frankincense. The mite,--
The widow's offering, and her all, put in
With grief, because she had no more to give,
Yet given although her all,--was in the sight
Of Heaven a sumless treasury bestowed,
And recko