The bird carols as sweet a lay for
the toil-worn peasant, who labors from morn till night, to gain a
scanty subsistence, as for the titled nobleman, who rolls along in his
gilded chariot. The little ragged sunburnt child of poverty may pluck
the wayside flowers with as much freedom as the child of wealth, who
is nurtured upon the lap of luxury and ease. The cool summer breeze,
laden with grateful perfume, fans the hot brow of the slave, weary and
fainting beneath his task, as freely as it does that of his pompous
and lordly master. Our souls seem to be united by a bond of sympathy,
with the inanimate objects of creation. There are many poor beings who
are obliged to toil from early dawn far into the hours of night, to
obtain bread for themselves and those who are dearer to them than
life, and who have never been instructed, even in the first rudiments
of science. Yet, are they conscious of possessing bright gems of
thought, which they find it impossible to detach from the dust and
rubbish and cobwebs of ignorance, with which their minds are filled.
There are many such, who, bound down by the grinding hand of
oppression, which would, if it were possible, crush out all
aspirations of the mind for something higher, nobler, more exalted in
the scale of being, are obliged to suppress that longing of the soul
that will at times arise to explore the mysterious labyrinths of
knowledge, yet, even such, can hold sweet communion with the works
of creation.
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