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One age moves onward, and the next builds up
Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood
The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,
Rearing from out the forests they had felled
The goodly frame-work of a fairer state;
The builder's trowel and the settler's ax
Are seldom wielded by the self same hand;
Ours is the harder task, yet not the less
Shall we receive the blessing for our toil
From the choice spirits of the after-time.

Russell Lowell, Mass., 1819-.

31. The Guilty Conscience.
The mind that broods o'er guilty woes
Is like the scorpion girt by fire;
In circle narrowing as it glows,
The flames around their captive close;
Till, inly searched by thousand throes,
And maddening in her ire,

One, and a sole relief she knows;
The sting she nourished for her foes-
Whose venom never yet was vain,
Gives but one pang, and cures all pain-
She darts into her desperate brain.
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;

So writhes the mind remorse has riven,
Unfit for earth, undoomed for heaven;
Darkness above, despair beneath-
Around it flame, within it death.

Lord Byron, England, 1788-1824.

32. The Cost of Success.

Few know of life's beginning; men behold
The goal achieved;—the warrior, when his sword
Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun;

The poet,—when his lyre hangs on the palm;
The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice,
And mould opinion on his gifted tongue:

They count not life's first steps, and never think
Upon the many miserable hours

When hope deferred was sickness to the heart.
They reckon not the battle and the march,
The long privations of a wasted youth;
They never see the banner till unfurled.
What are to them the solitary nights
Passed pale and anxious by the sickly lamp,
Till the young poet wins the world at last
To listen to the music long his own?

The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind
That makes their destiny; but they do not trace
Its struggle, or its long expectancy.

Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth
Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope,
Men would behold its threshold, and despair.

L. E. Landon, (Letitia E. Maclean,) England, 1802-1839.

33. True Philosophy.

With sweet flowers opening on thy sight daily,
Sing as the birds sing, gladly and gayly.
Think not of autumn sere, winter's grim shadows;

Sing as the birds sing over the meadows.

See what the hour reveals fairly and truly,Not what the cloud conceals, but the cloud duly. Think every common day is a good granted; Hail every trial sent as a tree planted.

Paint not the tempest's hour till it close o'er thee,
Trust not to Fancy's power,-have it before thee.
Seen its aurora-gleams, felt its dark terror,
Then to thy work proceed, fearless of error.
God sendeth naught in vain, gladness or sorrow:
Strength giveth of its gain, weakness must borrow.
Tempest and summer rain give the tree stature;
Each one who skulks the pain narrows his nature.

Anon.

34. The Weaver.

Little they think, the giddy and the vain,
Wandering at pleasure 'neath the shady trees,
While the light glossy silk or rustling train
Shines in the sun or flutters in the breeze,
How the sick weaver plies the incessant loom,
Crossing in silence the perplexing thread,
Pent in the confines of one narrow room,

Where droops complainingly his cheerless head;
Little they think with what dull, anxious eyes,
Nor by what nerveless, thin, and trembling hands,
The devious mingling of those various dyes

Were wrought to answer Luxury's commands: But the day cometh when the tired shall rest,Where weary Lazarus leans his head on Abraham's

breast!

Mrs. C. E. S. Norton, England, 1808-1877.

33. Dying Thoughts.

And in my dying hour,

When riches, fame, and honor have no power

To bear the spirit up,

Or from my lips to turn aside the cup
That all must drink at last,

O, let me draw refreshment from the past!
Then let my soul run back,

With peace and joy, along my earthly track,
And see that all the seeds

That I have scattered there, in virtuous deeds
Have sprung up, and have given,
Already, fruits of which to taste is heaven!
And though no grassy mound

Or granite pile say 'tis heroic ground
Where my remains repose,

Still will I hope-vain hope, perhaps!-that those
Which I have striven to bless,

The wanderer reclaimed, the fatherless,

May stand around my grave,

With the poor prisoner, and the poorer slave,

And breathe an humble prayer,

That they may die like him whose bones are mouldering there.

John Pierpont, Conn., 1785-1866.

36. A Good Life.

He liveth long who liveth well;
All else is life but flung away;

He liveth longest who can tell

Of true things truly done each day.

Then fill each hour with what will last;
Buy up the moments as they go:
The life above, when this is past,

Is the ripe fruit of life below.

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;
Sow peace, and reap its harvest bright;
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,
And find a harvest-home of light.

37. Philanthropy.

Anon.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,—
"What writest thou?"-The vision raised its head,
And, with a look made of all sweet accord,

Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord." "And is mine one?" said Abou. 66

Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel.-Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still,-and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."

The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again, with a great wakening light,

And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,

And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

Leigh Hunt, England, 1784-1859.

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