And some to happy homes repair,

Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare

The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
And dreams of greatness in thine eye!
Goest thou to build an early name,
Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow!
Who is now fluttering in thy snare?
Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
The dance till daylight gleam again?
Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?
Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold dark hours, how slow the light! And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each, where his tasks or pleasures call,

They pass, and heed each other not. There is Who heeds, Who holds them all, In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life that seem
In wayward, aimless course to tend,
Are eddies of the mighty stream
That rolls to its appointed end.

W. C. BRYANT, 1798

American.

LABOUR, UNIVERSAL.

HEART of the People! Working Men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming Time this world of ours; Hold by that title,-which proclaims,

That ye are undismay'd and strong,

Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.

Yet not alone on you depend

These offices, or burthens fall; Labour for some or other end

Is lord and master of us all.

The high-born youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound, While Industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.

With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now,
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye
Might whistle by the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use

Of warm repose and careless joy,—
When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.

But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sign of vigour overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim?

Pleasure, for Pleasure's sake besought. How men would mock her flaunting shows, Her golden promise, if they knew

What weary

work she is to those

Who have no better work to do!

And he who still and silent sits

In closed room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits

With folded arm or open book :-
To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined

Till from his busy thoughts they flow.

Thus all must work—with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordain'd to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed,-
And all our choice is this,-to grow
Pasture and grain or noisome weed.

Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,—
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,
Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest,

And an increase of good for man.

RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES, 1809

OLD AGE AND DEATH.

THE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er ; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries,

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made:
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,

As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view,
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

EDMUND WALLER, 1605-1687.

THE WORLD.

SOME call the world a dreary place,
And tell long tales of sin and woe;
As if there were no blessed trace

Of sunshine to be found below.

They point, when autumn winds are sighing,
To falling leaves and wither'd flowers;
But shall we only mourn them dying,
And never note their brilliant hours?

They mark the rainbow's fading light,
And say it is the type of man ;
"So passeth he❞—but, oh! how bright
The transient glory of the span !

They liken Life unto the stream

That, swift and shallow, pours along; But beauty marks the rippling gleam, And music fills the bubbling song.

K