Old Aleck, The Weaver, Sat In The Nook Of His Chimney, Reading An Ancient Book, Old, And Yellow, And Sadly Worn, With Covers Faded, And Soiled, And Torn; - And The Tallow Candle Would Flicker And Flare As The Wind, Which Tumbled The Old Man'S Hair, Swept Drearily In Through A Broken Pane, Damp And Chilling With Sleet And Rain. Yet Still, Unheeding The Changeful Light, Old Aleck Read On And On That Night; Sometimes Lifting His Eyes, As He Read, To The Cob-Webb'D Rafters Overhead; - But At Length He Laid The Book Away, And Knelt By His Broken Stool To Pray; And Something, I Fancied, The Old Man Said About "Treasures In Heaven" Of Which he'd Read. A Wealthy Merchant Over The Way Sat In His Lamp-Light'S Steady Ray, Where Many A Volume Richly Bound And Heavily Gilded Was Lying Round. One, With Glittering Clasps Was There, Embossed, And Pictured, And Wondrous Fair; But The Printed Words Were The Very Same As Those I Read By The Flickering Flame That Gave Me Light As I Stooped To Look Into The Old Man'S Tattered Book, And I Knew By The Page'S Spotless White, No Hand Had Opened It Yet To The Light. "Treasures In Heaven"! - What, Rich Man, Heir To Countless Thousands, Your Thoughts Are - Where? With These He Read Of? - No; Ah, No! - Over The Storm-Vexed Waters They Go, Where Stout Ships Buffet The Blast To-Night, With Never A Glimmering Star In Sight! Day Fretted The East With Its Stormy Gold, But The Turbulent Ocean Raged And Rolled, And Dashed On Many A Rock Girt Shore The Wrecks Of Ships That Would Sail No More, - Lifting, At Times, To The Topmost Wave Ghastly Faces No Hand Could Save, - And Then, Far Down With His Treasures Vain, Burying Each In The Depths Again. And The Merchant Looked From His Mansion Fair, Over The Ocean, With Troubled Air; And Thought Of His Treasures, In One Short Night Whelmed In The Deep By The Tempest'S Might; - Ah, - I Knew By That Pale Brow'S Deepening Gloom, That He Owned No Treasure Beyond The Tomb. Day Fretted The East With Its Stormy Gold, Creeping Slow Through A Casement Old, And Stealing Sadly With Faint, Cold Ray Into The Hut Where The Old Man Lay. White And Still Was The Scattered Hair, And The Hands Were Crossed With A Reverent Air; - Calm And Stirless The Eyelids Lay, Pale As Marble And Cold As Clay, But The Lips Were Tenderly Wreathed, The While, With The Beautiful Light Of A Saintly Smile; And I Knew He Had Passed From That Desolate Room To A Fadeless Treasure Beyond The Tomb.