Nothing to do? Oh! what sinful delusion;
Hear ye the din in the populous streets;
Hark! how dispelling this fatal illusion
The dark troubled breast of humanity beats;
Thousands of weary ones need consolation,
Thousands of children are crying for bread,
Thousands fall heedlessly into temptation,
Thousands are homeless, and scantily fed.
Nothing to do? Are no strong ones oppressing
The weak and the helpless, the strangers to love?
Is there no life you can cheer with a blessing?
No grief of the heart you can help to remove?
Oh! then away with the indolent feeling
That prompts you to say "you have nothing to do;"
Angels and men to your souls are appealing,
"Work, work in earnest, be patient, be true."
ROWLAND BROWN, 1837-
BE wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer;
Next day the fatal precedent will plead;
Thus on, till wisdom is push'd out of life.
Procrastination is the thief of time;
Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
And to the mercies of a moment leaves
The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
If not so frequent, would not this be strange?
That 'tis so frequent, this is stranger still.
Of man's miraculous mistakes, this bears
The palm, "That all men are about to live,"
For ever on the brink of being born:
All pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel, and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least their own; their future selves applaud;
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails;
That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,
And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man, .
And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,
As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purposes to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought
Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same.
EDWARD YOUNG, 1681-1765.
THE PLOUGHSHARE OF OLD ENGLAND.
THE sailor boasts his stately ship, the bulwark of the ¿ isle ;
The soldier loves his sword, and sings of tented plains the while;
But we will hang the ploughshare up within our fathers' halls,
And guard it as the deity of plenteous festivals.
We'll pluck the brilliant poppies, and the far-famed barley-corn,
To wreathe with bursting wheat-ears that outshine the saffron morn ;
We'll crown it with a glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land;
The Ploughshare, of Old England, and the sturdy peasant band!
The work it does is good and blest, and may be proudly told;
We see it in the teeming barns, and fields of waving gold;
Its metal is unsullied, no blood-stain lingers there : God speed it well, and let it thrive unshackled everywhere.
The bark may rest upon the wave, the spear may gather dust;
But never may the prow that cuts the furrow lie and
Fill up, fill up, with glowing heart, and pledge our fertile land,
The Ploughshare of Old England, and the sturdy
'TIS INDUSTRY SUPPORTS US ALL.
NATURE expects mankind should share
The duties of the public care.
Who's born for sloth? To some we find
The ploughshare's annual toil assign'd:
Some at the sounding anvil glow;
Some the swift-sliding shuttle throw;
Some, studious of the wind and tide,
From pole to pole our commerce guide;
Some, taught by industry, impart
With hands and feet, the works of art;
While some, of genius more refined,
With head and tongue assist mankind :
Each, aiming at one common end,
Proves to the whole a needful friend.
Thus, from each other's useful aid,
By turns are obligations paid:
The monarch, when his table's spread,
Is to the clown obliged for bread;
And, when in all his glory drest,
Owes to the loom his royal vest.
Do not the mason's toil and care
Protect him from th' inclement air?
Does not the cutler's art supply
The ornament that guards his thigh?
All these, in duty to the throne,
Their common obligations own:
'Tis he (his own and people's cause)
Protects their properties and laws.
Thus they their honest toil employ,
And with content the fruits enjoy.
In every rank, or great or small,
'Tis industry supports us all.
THOMAS GAY, 1688-1732.
MAN GIVETH UP THE GHOST, AND WHERE IS HE?"
WHERE is he? Hark! his lonely home
Is answering to the mournful call!
The setting sun with dazzling blaze
May fire the windows of his hall:
But evening shadows quench the light,
And all is cheerless, cold, and dim,
Save where one taper wakes at night,
Like weeping love remembering him.
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