"BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN."
Matt. v. 4.
Oh deem not they are blest alone
Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man hath shown
A blessing for the eyes that weep.
The light of smiles shall fill again
The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
Are promises of happier years.
There is a day of sunny rest
For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
But joy shall come with early light.
And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier,
Sheddest the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
Will give him to thy arms again.
Nor let the good man's trust depart,
Though life its common gifts deny,-
Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,
And spurned of men, he goes to die.
For God has marked each sorrowing day,
And numbered every secret tear,
And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.
From FATHER, TO THY KIND LOVE.
Bestower of the health that lies
On tearless cheeks and cheerful eyes.
Lament who will, in fruitless tears,
The speed with which our moments fly; I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
Look, how they come,-a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.
What! grieve that time has brought so soon The sober age of manhood on?
As idly might I weep, at noon,
To see the blush of morning gone.
Could I give up the hopes that glow
In prospect, like Elysian isles;
And let the cheerful future go,
With all her promises and smiles? . .
Then haste thee, Time-'tis kindness all
That speeds thy wing-ed feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they pall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.
Thou fliest and bear'st away our woes,
And as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.
From EACH AND ALL.
Thou knowest not what argument
Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent.
All are needed by each one,
Nothing is fair or good alone.
What boots it, thy virtue,
What profit thy parts,
While one thing thou lackest-
The art of all arts!
The only credentials,
Passport to success,
Opens castle and parlour-
Address, man! Address! . .
This clenches the bargain,
Sails out of the bay;
Gets the vote in the Senate,
Spite of Webster and Clay ;-
Has for genius no mercy,
For speeches no heed;
It lurks in the eye-beam,
It leaps to its deed.
Whither went the lovely hoyden?
Disappeared in blessed wife;
Servant to a wooden cradle,
Living in a baby's life.
HENRY WADSWORTH
LONGFELLOW.
A PSALM OF LIFE.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way,
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the World's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time ;-
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er Life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.
From SANTA FILOMENA.
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoke a noble thought,
Our hearts, in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
Honour to those whose words or deeds, Thus help us in our daily needs;
And, by their overflow,
Raise us from what is low.
Come to me, O ye children!
And whisper in my ear
What the birds and the winds are singing
In your sunny atmosphere.
For what are all our contrivings,
And the wisdom of our books,
When compared with your caresses,
And the gladness of your looks?
Ye are better than all the ballads
That ever were sung or said;
For ye are living poems,
And all the rest are dead.
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