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The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; | I hold it true, whate'er befall—

So calm are we when passions are no more.
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost.

Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and de-
cay'd,

Lets in new light through chinks that time
has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become
As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they

view,

That stand upon the threshold of the new.

EDMUND WALLER.

FROM "IN MEMORIAM."

I.

I HELD it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years

And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro' time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?

Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown'd,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss:
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast,
"Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn."

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I feel it, when I sorrow most—
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

LIV.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,

To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroyed,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete:

That not a worm is cloven in vain;

That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;

I can but trust that good shall fall
At last-far off-at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

LXXVIII.

Again at Christmas did we weave

The holly round the Christmas hearth;
The silent snow possessed the earth,
And calmly fell our Christmas-eve:
The yule-clog sparkled keen with frost.
No wing of wind the region swept,
But over all things brooding slept
The quiet sense of something lost.
As in the winters left behind

Again our ancient games had place,
The mimic picture's breathing grace,
And dance and song and hoodman-blind.
Who show'd a token of distress?

No single tear, no mark of pain:
O sorrow, then can sorrow wane?
O grief, can grief be changed to less?
O last regret, regret can die!

No-mixt with all this mystic frame,
Her deep relations are the same,
But with long use her tears are dry.

CVI.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The is dying in the night;
year
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out; ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

CXIV.

Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail
Against her beauty? May she mix
With men and prosper! Who shall fix
Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
But on her forehead sits a fire:

She sets her forward countenance
And leaps into the future chance,
Submitting all things to desire.
Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain-

She cannot fight the fear of death.
What is she, cut from love and faith,
But some wild Pallas from the brain

Of Demons? fiery hot to burst
All barriers in her onward race
For power.
Let her know her place;
She is the second, not the first.

A higher hand must make her mild,
If all be not in vain; and guide
Her footsteps, moving side by side
With Wisdom, like the younger child:

For she is earthly of the mind,

But Wisdom heavenly of the soul.
Oh, friend, who camest to thy goal
So early, leaving me behind,

I would the great world grew like thee,
Who grewest not alone in power
And knowledge, but by year and hour
In reverence and in charity.

CXVIII.

Contemplate all this work of Time,
The giant laboring in his youth;
Nor dream of human love and truth,
As dying Nature's earth and lime;

But trust that those we call the dead
Are breathers of an ampler day
For ever nobler ends. They say,
The solid earth whereon we tread
In tracts of fluent heat began,

And grew to seeming-random forms,
The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till at the last arose the man;

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime,

The herald of a higher race, And of himself in higher place, If so he type this work of time Within himself, from more to more; Or, crown'd with attributes of woe Like glories, move his course, and show That life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom,

And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And battered with the shocks of doom To shape and use. Arise and fly

The reeling Faun, the sensual feast; Move upward, working out the beast, And let the ape and tiger die.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

POEMS OF LABOR AND SOCIAL QUESTIONS.

LABORARE EST ORARE.

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,

PAUSE not to dream of the future before us; Rest from all petty vexations that meet Pause not to weep the wild cares that

come o'er us;

Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps
glowing,

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing;

Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring:

ing,

us,

Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat

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Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman great heart.

reaping,

From the dark cloud flows the life-giving How through his veins goes the life-curshower; rent leaping!

From the rough sod blows the soft-breath- How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride ing flower;

From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

sweeping,

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides!

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his Labor is wealth,-in the sea the pearl part.

Labor is life!-'Tis the still water fail-
eth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust
assaileth:

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of

noon.

Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and bright-

ens;

Idle hearts only the dark future frightens : Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!

groweth ;

Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ;

From the fine acorn the strong forest blow

eth;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!

Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee:

Rest not content in thy darkness,-a clod!

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly:
Labor!-all labor is noble and holy;
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy
God.

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

THE USEFUL PLOUGH.

A COUNTRY life is sweet!

In moderate cold and heat,

To walk in the air, how pleasant and fair!

In every field of wheat,

Matted and dense the tangled turf upheaves,

Mellow and dark the ridgy cornfield cleaves;

Up the steep hillside, where the laboring train

Slants the long track that scores the level plain,

Through the moist valley, clogg'd with oozing clay,

The patient convoy breaks its destined

way;

At every turn the loosening chains resound,

The fairest of flowers, adorning the The swinging ploughshare circles glisten

bowers,

And every meadow's brow;

So that I say, no courtier may

Compare with them who clothe in gray,

And follow the useful plough.

They rise with the morning lark,
And labor till almost dark;

Then folding their sheep, they hasten to sleep;

While every pleasant park

ing round,

Till the wide field one billowy waste ap

pears,

And wearied hands unbind the panting

steers.

These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings

The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings;

Next morning is ringing with birds that This is the page whose letters shall be seen

are singing

On each green, tender bough.

With what content and merriment

Changed by the sun to words of living

green;

This is the scholar whose immortal pen

Their days are spent, whose minds are Spells the first lesson hunger taught to

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The lord of earth, the hero of the plough! We stain thy flowers,-they blossom o'er

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Yet, O our Mother, while uncounted | Week in, week out, from morn till night,
charms
You can hear his bellows blow;
Steal round our hearts in thine embracing You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

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Bow'd their strong manhood to the hum- Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing

ble plough,

Shall rise erect, the guardians of the land, The same stern iron in the same right hand, Till o'er their hills the shouts of triumph

run;

The sword has rescued what the ploughshare won!

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. UNDER a spreading chestnut tree The village smithy stands; The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands; And the muscles of his brawny arms Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long;
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat;
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Onward through life he goes:

Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted-something done,
Has earn'd a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of Life
Our fortunes must be wrought,
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

THE FORGING OF THE ANCHOR.

COME, see the Dolphin's anchor forged! 'tis at a white heat nowThe bellows ceased, the flames decreased, though, on the forge's brow, The little flames still fitfully play through the sable mound,

And fitfully you still may see the grim smiths ranking round,

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