66

THE COLPORTEUR.

Bring forth thy pearl of exceeding worth,
Thou traveller grey and old;

And name the price of thy precious gem,
And my page shall count thy gold."

37

The cloud went off from the pilgrim's brow,
As a small and meagre book,
Unchased with gold or gem of cost,

From his folding robe he took;
"Here, lady fair, is the pearl of price ;—
May it prove as such to thee!

Nay, keep thy gold!-I ask it not,
For the word of God is free."

The hoary traveller went his way—
But the gift he left behind

Hath had its pure and perfect work

On that high-born maiden's mind;
And she hath turn'd from the pride of sin
To the lowliness of truth,

And given her trustful heart to God
In its beauteous hour of youth.

J. G. WHITTIER.

E

WHO LOVES ME BEST?

WHO loves me best?-My mother sweet,
Whose every look with love is replete ;
Who held me an infant on her knee;
Who hath ever watched me tenderly !—
And yet I have heard my mother say
That she some time must pass away.
Who then shall shield me from earthly ill?
Some one must love me better still!

Who loves me best ?-My father dear,
Who loveth to have me always near;
He whom I fly each eve to meet,
When passed away is the noon-tide heat;
Who from the bank where the sunbeam lies
Brings me the wild wood strawberries;

Oh! he is dear as my mother to me !—
But he will perish even as she.

Who loves me best?-The gentle dove
That I have tamed with my childish love;
That every one save myself doth fear;
Whose soft coo soundeth when I come near!

WHO LOVES ME BEST?

39

Yet perhaps it but loves me because I bring
To its cage the drops from the clearest spring,
And hang green branches around the door.
Something, surely, must love me more!

Who loves me best?-My sister fair,
With her laughing eyes, and clustering hair;
Who flowers around my head doth twine;
Who presseth her rosy lips to mine;

Who singeth me songs in her artless glee !—
Can
any one love me better than she?
Yet, when I asked, that sister confess'd

Of all she did not love me the best.

Who loves me best ?-My brother young,
With his healthy cheek and his lisping tongue;
Who delighteth to lead me in merry play
Far down the greenwood's bushy way;
Who showeth me where the hazel-nuts grow,
And where the fairest field-flowers blow!—
Yet perhaps he loves me no more than the rest.
How shall I find who loves me best?

My mother loves me,-but she may die;
My white dove loves me,-but that may fly;
My father loves me, he may be changed;
I have heard of brothers and sisters estranged.