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Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;

Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right.

But see him on the edge of life,
With cares and sorrows worn;

Then age and want, oh! ill-matched pair!

Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favorites of fate,

In Pleasure's lap carest; Yet, think not all the rich and great

Are likewise truly blest.
But, oh! what crowds in every land

Are wretched and forlorn.
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,

That man was made to mourn.

Many and sharp the numerous ills

Inwoven with our frame! More pointed still we make ourselves,

Regret, remorse, and shame! And man, whose heaven-erected face

The smiles of love adorn, Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,

So abject, mean, and vile, Who begs a brother of the earth

To give him leave to toil;

And see his lordly fellow-worm

The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a wreeping wife

And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave—

By nature's law designed, — Why was an independent wish

E'er planted in my mind? If not, why am I subject to

His cruelty or scorn? Or why has man the will and power

To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,

Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of humankind

Is surely not the last!
The poor, oppressed, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense

To comfort those that mourn!

O death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow

From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh! a blest relief to those

That weary-laden mourn!

Louisa Bushnell.


Taste the sweetness of delaying, Till the hour shall come for saying

That I love you with my soul; Have you never thought your heart Finds a something in the part,

It would miss from out the whole?

In this rosebud you have given, Sleeps that perfect rose of heaven

That in Fancy's garden blows; Wake it not by touch or sound, Lest, perchance, 'twere lost, not found,

In the opening of the rose.

Dear to me is this reflection
Of a fair and far perfection,

Shining through a veil undrawn;
Ask no question, then, of fate;
Yet a little longer wait.

In the beauty of the dawn.

Through our mornings, veiled and tender,

Shines a day of golden splendor,
Never yet fulfilled by day;

Ah! if love be made complete.

Will it, can it, be so sweet
As this ever sweet delay?

Samuel Butler.


Love is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess;
For could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of fate
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,
It would become a bliss too high

For perishing mortality;
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to Heaven but Love.
All love at first, like generous wine,
Ferments and frets until 'tis fine;
For when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from the impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still, the older,
And proves the pleasanter, the colder.

William Allen Butler.

WORK AND WORSHIP. "Laborare est orare." — St. Augustine.

Charlemagne, the mighty monarch,

As through Metten Wood he strayed, Found the holy hermit, Hut to. Toiling in the forest glade.

In his hand the woodman's hatchet, By his side the knife and twine,

There he cut and bound the faggots From the gnarled and stunted pine.

Well the monarch knew the hermit For his pious works and cares,

And the wonders which had followed From his vigils, fasts, and prayers.

Much he marvelled now to see him Toiling thus, with axe and cord;

And he cried in scorn, "O Father,
Is it thus you serve the Lord?"

But the hermit resting neither
Hand nor hatchet, meekly said:

"He who does no daily labor
May not ask for daily bread.

"Think not that my graces slumber While I toil throughout the day;

For all honest work is worship,
And to labor is to pray.

"Think not that the heavenly blessing

From the workman's hand removes; Who does best his task appointed. Him the Master most approves."

While he spoke the hermit, pausing
For a moment, raised his eyes

Where the overhanging branches
Swayed beneath the sunset skies.

Through the dense and vaulted forest

Straight the level sunbeam came,
Shining like a gilded rafter,
Poised upon a sculptured frame.

Suddenly, with kindling features,
While he breathes a silent prayer,

See, the hermit throws his hatchet, Lightly, upward in the air.

Bright the well-worn steel is gleaming,

As it flashes through the shade, And descending, lo! the sunbeam Holds it dangling by the blade!

"See, my son," exclaimed the hermit, —

"See the token heaven has sent; Thus to humble, patient effort Faith's miraculous aid is lent.

Toiling, hoping, often fainting,

As we labor, Love Divine Through the shadows pours its sunlight,

Crowns the work, vouchsafes the sign!"

Homeward, slowly, went the monarch,

Till he reached his palace hall. Where he strode among his warriors, He the bravest of them all.

Soon the Benedictine Abbey
Rose beside the hermit's cell;

He, by royal hands invested,
Ruled, as abbot, long and well.

Now beside the rushing Danube
Still its ruined walls remain.

Telling of the hermit's patience,
And the zeal of Charlemagne.


This is Goethe, with a forehead
Like the fabled front of Jove;

In its massive lines the tokens
More of majesty than love.

This is Schiller, in whose features,
With their passionate calm regard,

We behold the true ideal
Of the high, heroic bard,

Whom the inward world of feeling
And the outward world of sense

To the endless labor summon,
And the endless recompense.

These are they, sublime and silent,
From whose living lips have rung

Words to be remembered ever
In the noble German tongue;

Thoughts whose inspiration, kindling
Into loftiest speech or song,

Still through all the listening ages Pours its torrent swift and strong.

As to-day in sculptured marble
Side by side the poets stand,
So they stood in life's great strug-

Side by side and hand to hand,

In the ancient German city. Dowered with many a deathless name,

Where they dwelt and toiled together, Sharing "each the other's fame.

One till evening's lengthening shadows

Gently stilled his faltering lips, But the other's sun at noonday Shrouded in a swift eclipse.

There their names are household treasures,

And the simplest child you meet Guides you where the house of Goethe

Fronts upon the quiet street;

And, hard by, the modest mansion
Where full many a heart has felt

Memories uncounted clustering Round the words, "Here Schiller dwelt."

In the churchyard both are buried,
Straight beyond the narrow gate,

In the mausoleum sleeping,
With Duke Charles, in sculptured

For the monarch loved the poets, Called them to him from afar, Wooed them near his court to linger,

And the planets sought the star.

He, his larger gifts of fortune
With their larger fame to blend,

Living counted it an honor
That they named him as their

Dreading to be all forgotten,
Still their greatness to divide,

Dying prayed to have his poets
"Buried one on either side.

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The shadowy world is behind us,

The shining Cipango before; Each morning the sun rises brighter

On ocean, and island, and shore. And still shall ourspiritsgrow lighter,

As prospects more glowing unfold; Then on, merry men! to Cipango,

To the west, and the regions of gold!"

There came to De Leon the sailor,

Some Indian sages, who told Of a region so bright that the waters

Were sprinkled with islands of gold. And they added: "The leafy Bi mini.

A fair land of grottos and bowers Is there; and a wonderful fountain

Upsprings from its gardens of flowers.

That fountain gives life to the dying, And youth to the aged restores:

They flourish in beauty eternal, who set but their fee; on its shores!"

Then answered De Leon, the sailor: "I am withered, and wrinkled, and old;

I would rather discover that fountain Than a country of diamonds and gold."

Away sailed De Leon, the sailor;

Away with a wonderful glee, Till the birds were more rare in the azure,

The dolphins more rare in the sea. Away from the shady Bahamas.

Over waters no sailor had seen, Till again on his wandering vision,

Rose clustering islands of green. Still onward he sped till the breezes

Were laden with odors, and lo! A country embedded with flowers,

A country with rivers aglow! More bright than the sunny Antilles,

More fair than the shady Azores. "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,

As feasted his eye on the shores, "We have come to a region, my brothers.

More lovely than earth, of a truth; And here is the life-giving fountain, —

The beautiful Fountain of Youth."

Then landed De Leon, the sailor,

Unfurled his old banner, and sung; But he felt very wrinkled and withered,

All around was so fresh and so young.

The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming,

Their blossoms e'en margined the


O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers

Hung deep from the branches of trees.

"Praise the Lord!" sang De Leon,

the sailor; His heart was with rapture aflame; And he said: "Be the name of this


By Florida given to fame.
'T is a fair, a delectable country,

More lovely than earth, of a truth; I soon shall partake of the fountain, —

The beautiful Fountain of Youth!"

But wandered De Leon, the sailor, In search of the fountain in vain;

No waters were there to restore him To freshness and beauty again.

And his anchor he lifted, and murmured,

As the tears gathered fast in his eye, "I must leave this fair land of the flowers,

Go back o'er the ocean, and die," Then back by the dreary Tortugas,

And back by the shady Azores, He was borne on the storm-smitten waters

To the calm of his own native shores.

And that he grew older and older, His footsteps enfeebled gave proof,

Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain. The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

One day the old sailor lay dying
On the shores of a tropical isle,

And his heart was enkindled with rapture; I smile.

And his face lighted up with a

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