Republican Herald

No power is mine; nor Fame, nor Art,
Nor hoard of gleaming treasure;
My wealth is but an honest heart.
A love that hath no measure:
A heart, that knows nor dawn nor set,
And heeds nor kin nor clan;
A love, that hails a brother's quiet,
Where'er it hails a man.
But though my lot is low, the year
Rich store of pleasance bringeth:
For me the dew distils its tear,
With me the wild bird singeth;
For me the windle have e'er a glee,
The bright blue sky a smile,
And at my beck, glad harmony
Awakes the forest aisle.
Around my feet, where'er I stand,
Meek, pleasant flowers are blowing:
And stately trees, on either hand,
Their arms to heaven are throwing;
And merrily, in sun and shade,
The brook goes laughing by;
While every bright star overhead
Beameth an angel's eye.
All things—above, below, around—
Have portion in my gladness;
And if I sorrow, sight and sound
Claim kindred with my sadness.
The wild-flower droops, the sky grows dim,
The loud winds change their tone,
And Nature blendeth with her hymn
The echo of my own.
And thus I live,—and though the proud
Pass by me in derision,
What recks it? Scorning cannot cloud
The brightness of my vision:
The sky still smiles, the blackbird sings,
The clover blooms as sweet;
And still a thousand pleasant things
Spring close about my feet.