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

Why should the preacher ever rave

Of sorrow, death, and "dust to dust?"
We know that we shall fill a grave,-
But why be sad before we must?

Look round the world and we shall see,
Despite the cynic's snarling groan,
Much to awaken thankful glee,

As well as wring the hopeless moan.

Perchance the laden tree we shake
May have a reptile at its root;
But shall we only see the snake,
And quite forget the grateful fruit?

Shall we forget each sunny morn,
And tell of one dire lightning-stroke?

Of all the suits that we have worn,
Shall we but keep the funeral cloak?

Oh! why should our own hands be twining
Dark chaplets from the cypress-tree?
Why stand in gloomy spots, repining,
When further on sweet buds may be?

'Tis true that nightshade oft will bind us,
That eyes, the brightest, will be dim;
Old wrinkled Care too oft will find us,
But why should we go seeking him?
ELIZA COOK, 1818 -