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In the spirits' perfect air,

In the passions tame and kind, Innocence from selfish care,

The real Eden we shall find.

The “sear and yellow leaf” of age

Bears on its fragile stem,
The flowers of hope and love and faith,

A glorious diadem.
These flowers we find forever,

Beyond the “shining shore,”
Within the Amaranthine bowers,
They bloom to pale no more.


It is coming, it shall come,

To the patient and the striving, To the quiet heart at home,

Thinking wise and faithful living. When all error is worked out,

From the heart and from the life; When the sensuous is laid low,

Through the Spirit's holy strife; When the soul to sin hath died,

True and beautiful and sound; Then all earth is sanctified,

Up springs paradise around. Then shall come the Eden days,

Guardian watch from seraph eyes; Angels on the slanting rays,

Voices from the opening skies. From this spirit land, afar,

All disturbing force shall flee; Stir nor toil nor hope shall mar Its immortal unity.


GOING OUT AND COMING IN. Going out to fame and triumph,

Going out to love and light; Coming in to pain and sorrow,

Coming in to gloom and night. Going out with joy and gladness,

Coming in with woe and sin; Ceaseless streams of restless pilgrims

Going out and coming in! Through the portals of the homestead,

From bencath the blooming vine; To the trumpet tones of glory,

Where the bays and laurels twine; From the loving home-caresses

To the chill voice of the worldGoing out with gallant canvass

To the summer breeze unfurled.

FLOWERS. How bright and beauteous are the flowers,

Those undertones of love, Which God has given to us below,

From Eden bowers above.
They bloom upon the hillside,

And in the lovely glen,
They brighten children's faces,

And cheer the hearts of men.


Their fragrance fills the evening air,

Floats on the evening breeze,
And like an angel whisper,

Speaks to the hearts of ease.
The flowers of spring are beautiful,

But summer blooms more rare,
The autumn and the winter flowers,

May teach us-ne'er despair. The springtime of our life would seem

A landscape, covered o'er With flowers in bright and rich array,

Exhaustless in their store; While summer flowers of life are filled

With dews distilled from care, We find no rose without a thorn,

How e'er so bright and fair.

Through the gateway, down the footpath,

Through the lilacs by the way; Through the clover by the meadow,

Where the gentle home-lights stray; To the wide world of ambition,

Up the toilsome hill of fame, Winning oft a mighty triumph,

Winning oft a noble name. Coming back all worn and weary,

Weary with the world's cold breath; Coming to the dear old homestead,

Coming in to age and death. Weary of its empty flattery,

Weary of its ceaseless din, Weary of its heartless sneering,

Coming from the bleak world in. Going out with hopes of glory,

Coming in with sorrows dark; Going out with sails all flying,

Coming in with mastless barque. Restless stream of pilgrims, striving

Wreaths of fame and love to win, From the doorways of the homestead Going out and coming in!




O, the good gods, How blind is pride! What eagles are we still In matters that belong to other men! What beetles in our own!

Cash prizes to the amount of Three Hundred Dollars will be awarded by the Publisher to the persons who will name the author of the greatest number of the Prize Quotations Rules for Competitors may be found on another page,

143. Pride-of all others the most dangerous faultProceeds from want of sense, or want of thought. The men who labor and digest things most, Will be much apter to despond than boast.

A creature not too bright nor good
For human nature's daily food,
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

Hands of invisible spirits touch the strings
Of that mysterious instrument, the soul,
And play the prelude of our fate

How beautiful is gentleness, whose face

Like April sunshine, or the summer rain, Swells everywhere the buds of generous thought? So easy, and so sweet it is; its grace Smoothes out so soon the tangled knots of

Can ye not learn it will ye not be taught?

With deep affection and recollection,
I often think of those Shandon Bells,

Whose sounds, so wild, would

In the days of childhood,
Fling round my cradle their magic spells.

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
Yet it creates transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas,

There is nothing lighter than vain praise.

Yellow, yellow leaves,
Falling, falling, falling!
Death is best, when hope
There is no recalling;
Yet O, yellow leaves,
How the parting grieves.

The impatient Wish, that never feels repose,
Desire, that with perpetual current flows;
The fluctuating pangs, of Hope and Fear,
Joy distant still, and Sorrow ever near

Speech is morning to the mind;
It spreads the beauteous images abroad,
Which else lie furled and clouded in the soul.

When all the blandishments of life are gone,
The coward sneaks to death, the brave live on,

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140. Stop, Mortal! Here thy brother lies,

The Poet of the Poor. His books were rivers, woods, and skies,

The meadow, and the moor;
His teachers were the torn hearts' wail,

The tyrant and the slave,
The street, the factory, the jail,

The palace-and the grave!

150. Patience! why 'tis the soul of peace: Of all the virtues, 'tis nearest kin to heaven: It makes men look like gods. The best of men That e'er wore earth about him, was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit: The first true gentleman that ever breathed.

141. Star after star from heaven's high arch shall rush, Suns sink on suns, and systems, systems crush, Headlong, extinct, to one dark centre fall, And death, and night, and chaos mingle all! Till o'er the wreck, emerging from the storm, Immortal nature lifts her changeful form, Mounts from her funeral pyre on wings of flame, And soars and shines, another and the same.

151. Who gripes too much casts all upon the ground; Too great a grateness greatness doth confound.

Thou art perhaps like me for a season;
Thy years will have an end.
Thou shalt sleep in thy clouds,

Careless of the voice of the morning.
Exult then, Osun, in the strength of thy

153. When the humid shadows hover over all the starry

spheres, And the melancholy darkness gently weeps in rainy

tears, What a bliss to press the pillow of a cottage-cham

ber bed, And lie listening to the patter of the soft rain overhead.

154. We come! we come! and ye feel our might, As we're hastening on in our boundless fight; And over the mountains, and over the deep, Our broad invisible pinions sweep Like the spirit of liberty, wild and free, And ye look on our works, and own 'tis we; Ye call us the winds; but can ye tell Wither we go, or where we dwell?

To walk, ride, sit, or sleep at one's own ease, And, pleasing a man's self, none other to dis. please.

My mind to me a kingdom is,

Such present joys therein I find,
That it excels all other bliss

That earth affords or grows by kind; Though much I want which most would

Yet still my mind forbids to crave.

Happy the man, of mortals happiest he
Whose quiet mind from vain desires is free;
Whom neither hopes deceive nor fears

But lives at peace, within himself content;
In thought and act accountable to none
But to himself and to the gods alone.

I kiss not where I wish to kill;

I feign not love where most I hate;
I break no sleep to win my will;

I wait not at the mighty's gate.
I scorn no poor, I fear no rich;
I feel no want, nor have too much.

I lead my life indifferently;

I mean nothing but honesty;
And though folks judge full diversely,

I am as I am, and so will I die.

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A little garden grateful to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by,
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes or sycamores should grow,
At th' end of which, a silent study placed,
Should be with all the noblest authors

165. Let a coach be called, And let the man who calleth be the caller; And in his calling let him nothing call, But coach! coach! coach! O for a coach, ye gods!

166. 'T is over-the lights are all dying,

The coaches all driving away;
And many a fair one is sighing,

And many a false one is gay;
And beauty counts over her numbers

Of conquests, as homewards she drivesAnd some are gone home to their slumbers,

And some are gone home to their wives,

I praise thee for the power to love the Right,
Though Wrong awhile show fairer to the sight;
The power to sin, the dreadful power to choose
The evil portion and the good refuse;
And last, when all the power of ill is spent,
The power to seek Thy face and to repent.

How calm and quiet a delight

Is it, alone,
To read, and meditate, and write

By none offended, and offending none.

Then come to the West, and the rose on thy

mouth, Will be sweeter to me than the flowers of the South.

Speak gently! it is better far

To rule by love than fear;
Speak gently! let no harsh words mar

The good we might do here;
Speak gently! 'tis a little thing

Dropped in the heart's deep well,
The good, the joy, which it may bring,

Eternity shall tell.

167. It was such a funny story! how I wish you could

have heard it, For it sets us all a laughing from the little to

the big; I'd really like to tell it, but I don't know how to

word it, Though it travels to the music of a very lively jig.

168. There is a stone there that whoever kisses,

Oh, he never misses to grow eloquent; 'T is he may clamber to a lady's chamber

Or become a member of Parliament: A clever spouter he'll soon turn out, or

An out-and-outer, to be let alone: Don't hope to hinder him, or to bewilder him, Sure he's a pilgrim from the Blarney Stone!

169. I know that the world—that the great big world

Will never a moment stop
To see which dog may be in the fault,

But will shout for the dog on top.
But for me--I never shall pause or ask

Which dog may be in the right-
For my heart will beat while it beats at all,
For the under dog in the fight.

170. The light the sun gives ev'ry day's as light as any

feather, And the Tower guns are heavier than the heavi

est weather. The broadest joke is not so broad as any railway

gauge, One blade of grass is twice as green as any green

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old age.

171. Well, after many a sad reproach, They got into a hackney-coach,

And trotted down the street. I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind,

Their shoes were on their feet.

178. Serenely full, the epicure would say, Fate cannot harm me, I have dined to-day.

179. You'd scarce expect one of my age To speak in public on the stage; And if I chance to fall below Demosthenes or Cicero, Don't view me with a critic's eye, But pass my imperfections by.

Thus undisturbed by anxious cares,

His peaceful moments ran;
And everybody said he was
A fine old gentleman.

173. The South has its roses and bright skies of blue, But ours are more sweet with love's own change

ful hue Half sunshine, half tears, like the girl I love best; Oh! what is the South to the beautiful West?

180. Let thine arm, O Queen, support me;

Hush thy sobs and bow thine ear! Hearken to the great heart secrets

Thou, and thou alone, must hear.

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