Every coin of earthly treasure

      We have lavished upon earth

      For our simple worldly pleasure

      May be reckoned something worth;

      For the spending was not losing,

      Tho' the purchase were but small;

      It has perished with the using.

      We have had it,—that is all!

      All the gold we leave behind us,

      When we turn to dust again,

      Tho' our avarice may blind us,

      We have gathered quite in vain;

      Since we neither can direct it,

      By the winds of fortune tost,

      Nor in other worlds expect it;

      What we hoarded we have lost.

      But each merciful oblation—

      Seed of pity wisely sown,

      What we gave in self-negation,

      We may safely call our own;

      For the treasure freely given

      Is the treasure that we hoard,

      Since the angels keep in heaven,

      What is lent unto the Lord.

      Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill,

      That cut, like blades of steel, the air,

      Causing the creeping blood to chill

      With the sharp cadence of despair?

      Again they come, as if a heart

      Were cleft in twain by one quick blow,

      And every string had voice apart

      To utter its peculiar woe.

      Whence came they? From yon temple, where

      An altar, raised for private prayer,

      Now forms the warrior's marble bed

      Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

      The dim funereal tapers throw

      A holy luster o'er his brow,

      And burnish with their rays of light

      The mass of curls that gather bright

      Above the haughty brow and eye

      Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

      What hand is that, whose icy press

      Clings to the dead with death's own grasp,

      But meets no answering caress?

      No thrilling fingers seek its clasp.

      It is the hand of her whose cry

      Rang wildly, late, upon the air,

      When the dead warrior met her eye

      Outstretched upon the altar there.

      With pallid lip and stony brow

      She murmurs forth her anguish now.

      But hark! the tramp of heavy feet

      Is heard along the bloody street;

      Nearer and nearer yet they come,

      With clanking arms and noiseless drum.

      Now whispered curses, low and deep,

      Around the holy temple creep;

      The gate is burst; a ruffian band

      Rush in, and savagely demand,

      With brutal voice and oath profane,

      The startled boy for exile's chain.

      The mother sprang with gesture wild,

      And to her bosom clasped her child;

      Then, with pale cheek and flashing eye,

      Shouted with fearful energy,

      "Back, ruffians, back! nor dare to tread

      Too near the body of my dead;

      Nor touch the living boy; I stand

      Between him and your lawless band.

      Take me, and bind these arms—these hands,—

      With Russia's heaviest iron bands,

      And drag me to Siberia's wild

      To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

      "Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried,

      Tearing the pale boy from her side,

      And in his ruffian grasp he bore

      His victim to the temple door.

      "One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one!

      Will land or gold redeem my son?

      Take heritage, take name, take all,

      But leave him free from Russian thrall!

      Take these!" and her white arms and hands

      She stripped of rings and diamond bands,

      And tore from braids of long black hair

      The gems that gleamed like starlight there;

      Her cross of blazing rubies, last,

      Down at the Russian's feet she cast.

      He stooped to seize the glittering store;—

      Up springing from the marble floor,

      The mother, with a cry of joy,

      Snatched to her leaping heart the boy.

      But no! the Russian's iron grasp

      Again undid the mother's clasp.

      Forward she fell, with one long cry

      Of more than mortal agony.

      But the brave child is roused at length,

      And, breaking from the Russian's hold,

      He stands, a giant in the strength

      Of his young spirit, fierce and bold.

      Proudly he towers; his flashing eye,

      So blue, and yet so bright,

      Seems kindled from the eternal sky,

      So brilliant is its light.

      His curling lips and crimson cheeks

      Foretell the thought before he speaks;

      With a full voice of proud command

      He turned upon the wondering band.

      "Ye hold me not! no! no, nor can;

      This hour has made the boy a man.

      I knelt before my slaughtered sire,

      Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire.

      I wept upon his marble brow,

      Yes, wept! I was a child; but now

      My noble mother, on her knee,

      Hath done the work of years for me!"

      He drew aside his broidered vest,

      And there, like slumbering serpent's crest,

      The