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HYMN TO THE NIGHT
From the cool cisterns of the midnight air
My spirit drank repose;
The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,-
O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,
Peace Peace! Orestes-like I breathe this prayer!
Descend with broad-winged flight,
The welcome, the thrice-prayed for, the most
The best-beloved Night!
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE
TELL me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant
A PSALM OF LIFE.
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footsteps on the sands of time;
Footsteps, that perhaps another,
Let us, then, be up and doing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he; "Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet
I will give them all back again."
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.