BELL WORT. 



HOPELESSNESS. 



THE OMEN. 



BY ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 



For fifty years the old man's feet 



Have crossed the oaken sill, 

 And never an eye his own to greet, 



Nor lip with smiles to fill. 

 Silent he comes and silent goes 



With a cold and covert air, 

 Around a searching look he throws, 



Then mounts the creaking stair. 



He's a sallow man with narrow heart 



And feelings all of self — 

 And thoughts he may to none impart — 



They all are thoughts of pelf. 

 But now he enters not the door ; 



He stands on the threshold stone — 

 What think you has come his spirit o'er 



That he loiters in the sun ? 



