"Doth not all struggle tell, upon its brow, "Love first, with most, then wealth, dis- That he who makes it is not easy now, tinction, fame, Quicken the blood and spirit on the game. Some try them all, and all alike accuse: 'I have been all,' said one, 'And find that all is none.' What is the use? "In woman's love we sweetly are undone, Willing to attract, but harder to be won, Harder to keep is she whose love we choose. Loves are like flowers that grow What is the use? But hopes to be? Vain hope that dost abuse! Coquetting with thine eyes, And fooling him who sighs. What is the use? "Go pry the lintels of the pyramids; Lift the old kings' mysterious coffin-lidsThis dust was theirs whose names these stones confuse, These mighty monuments So shalt thou find the use of life, and see | To make me own this hind of princes Thy Lord, at set of sun, Approach and say, "Well done!" This at the last: They clutch the sapless fruit, Ashes and dust of the Dead Sea, who suit Their course of life to compass happiness; That, to be greatly good, UNKNOWN. ABRAHAM LINCOLN. (From "THE LONDON PUNCH.") You lay a wreath on murdered Lincoln's bier, You, who with mocking pencil wont to trace, Broad for the self-complacent British sneer, His length of shambling limb, his furrowed face. His gaunt, gnarled hands, his unkempt, bristling hair, His garbuncouth, his bearing ill at ease, His lack of all we prize as debonair, Of power or will to shine, of art to please. You, whose smart pen backed up the pencil's laugh, Judging each step, as though the way were plain; Reckless, so it could point its paragraph, Of chief's perplexity or people's pain. peer, This rail-splitter a true-born king of Rough culture, but such trees large | And with the martyr's crown crownest a fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, . And then he heard the hisses change to cheers. life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. MRS. MILES. HYMN TO CHRIST. THOU, who didst stoop below To drain the cup of woe, Wearing the form of frail mortality, Thy blessed labors done, Thy crown of victory won, Hast passed from earth,-passed to thy throne on high. Our eyes behold thee not, Those who have placed their hope, their trust, in thee: Before thy Father's face Thou hast prepared a place, That where thou art, there may they also be. It was no path of flowers, Through this dark world of ours, Belovéd of the Father, thou didst tread; And shall we in dismay Shrink from the narrow way, When clouds and darkness are around it spread? O Thou who art our life, Be with us through the strife; Was not thy head by earth's fierce tem pests bowed? Raise thou our eyes above To see a Father's love Beam, like a bow of promise, through the cloud. E'en through the awful gloom, That light of love our guiding star shall be; Our spirits shall not dread The shadowy way to tread, Friend! Guardian! Saviour! which doth lead to thee! L |