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Come away! for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
A mansion incorruptible.
A PSALM OF LIFE. - Long fellow.
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 further 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 a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !
Let the dead Past bury its dead !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
Footsteps on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Learn to labor and to wait.
BERMUDAS. - Marvell.
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
“ What should we do but sing His praise,
He lands us on a glassy stage,
Thus sung they, in the English boat,
TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY,
TWENTY-FOURTH SUNDAY AFTER TRINITY.
Keble. "The heart knoweth his own bitterness; and a stranger doth not
intermeddle with his joy." — PROVERBS xiv. 10.
Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone — so Heaven has willed — we die, Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile or sigh ?
Each in its hidden sphere of joy or woe,
Our hermit spirits dwell, and range apart; Our eyes see all around, - in gloom or glow, —
Hues of their own, fresh borrowed from the heart.
And well it is for us our God should feel
Alone our secret throbbings; so our prayer May readier spring to heaven, nor spend its zeal
On cloud-born idols of this lower air.
For if one heart in perfect sympathy
Beat with another, answering love for love, Weak mortals all entranced on earth would lie,
Nor listen for those purer strains above.
Or what if Heaven for once its searching light
Lent to some partial eye, disclosing all The rude, bad thoughts that in our bosom's night
Wander at large, nor heed Love's gentle thrall ?
Who would not shun the dreary, uncouth place ?
As if, fond leaning where her infant slept, A mother's arm a serpent should embrace;
So might we friendless live, and die unwept.
Then keep the softening veil in mercy drawn,
Melts in dim haze each coarse, ungentle hue.
A SONNET. — Wordsworth.
SCORN not the Sonnet; critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honors; with this key Shakspeare unlocked his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; Camoens soothed with it an exile's grief; The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle-leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned His visionary brow; a glow-worm lamp, It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet, whence he blew Soul-animating strains, - alas, too few!
EXPERIENCE. – Jane Taylor.
How false is found, as on in life we go,