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THE FUTURE.

It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above,
To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years;
That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love,
And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears.

Did we know that the voices, now gentle and bland, Will forego the fond word and the whispering tone; Did we know that the eager and warm-pressing hand Will be joyfully forward in "casting the stone:"

Did we know the affection engrossing our soul

Will end, as it oft does, in sadness and pain; That the passionate breast will but hazard its rest, And be wreck'd on the shore it is panting to gain :

Oh! did we but know of the shadows so nigh,

The world would indeed be a prison of gloom; All light would be quench'd in youth's eloquent eye, And the prayer-lisping infant would ask for the tomb.

For if Hope is a star that may lead us astray,

And "deceiveth the heart," as the aged ones preach; Yet 'twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way,

Though its halo illumes where we never can reach.

Though Friendship but flit, like a meteor gleam,

Though it burst, like a morn-lighted bubble of dew; Though it passes away, like a leaf on the stream, Yet 'tis bliss while we fancy the vision is true.

Oh! 'tis well that the Future is hid from our sight,

That we walk in the sunshine, nor dream of the cloud; That we cherish a flower, and think not of blight;

That we dance on the loom that may weave us a shroud.

It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above,

To fling Destiny's veil o'er the face of our years; That we dread not the blow that shall strike at our love, And expect not the beams that shall dry up our tears. ELIZA COOK, 1818—

LIFE AND FORTUNE.

OH! fools of fools, and mortal fools,
Who prize so much what Fortune gives;

Say, is there aught man owns or rules

In this same earth whereon he lives?
What do his proper rights embrace,
Save the fair gifts of Nature's grace?

If from you, then, by Fortune's spite,

The goods you deem your own be torn,
No wrong is done the while, but right;

For you had naught when you were born.

Then pass the dark-brown hours of night
No more in dreaming how you may
Best load your chest with golden freight :
Crave naught beneath the moon, I pray,
From Paris even to Pampelune,
Saving alone such simple boon
As needful is for life below.

Enough if fame your name adorn,
And you to earth with honour go;
For you had naught when you were born.

When all things were for common use-
Apples, all blithesome fruits of trees,
Nuts, honey, and each gum and juice,

Both man and woman too could please.
Strife never vex'd these meals of old:
Be patient, then, of heat and cold;

Esteem not Fortune's favours sure;

And of her gifts when you are shorn,
With moderate grief your loss endure;
For

you had naught when you were born.

L'ENVOY.

If Fortune does you any spite

Should even the coat be from you tornPray, blame her not-it is her right;

For you had naught when you were born. -French of Chartier, 1386-1447.

STRIKE!

I'VE a liking for this "striking,"
If we only do it well;
Firm, defiant, like a giant,
Strike

and make the effort tell!

One another, working brother!
Let us freely now advise ;
For reflection and correction
Help to make us great and wise.

Work and wages, say the sages,
Go for ever hand in hand;
As the motion of an ocean,
The supply and the demand.

My advice is, strike for prices

Nobler far than sordid coin; Strike with terror, sin, and error, And let man and master join.

Ever failing, now prevailing,

In the heart, or in the head,Make no clamour-take the hammerDrive it down, and strike it dead!

Much of chopping, lopping, propping,
Carpenter, we have to do,
Ere the plummet from the summit,
Mark our mortal fabric true.

Take the measure of false pleasure;
Try each action by the square;
Strike a chalk-line for your walk-line,
Strike to keep your footsteps there!

The foundation of Creation

Lies in Truth's unerring laws;
Man of mortar, there's no shorter
Way to base a righteous cause.

Every builder, painter, gilder,

Man of leather, man of cloth,
Each mechanic in a panic

With the way his labour goes.

Let him reason thus in season:

Strike the root of all his wrong,
Cease his quarrels, mend his morals,
And be happy, rich, and strong.
RALPH HOYT, 1806—

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