[From To-Morrow.] PROCRASTINATION. Lo, it is the even of To-day, a day so lately a To-morrow; O faint heart, still shall thy whisper be, To-morrow, And must the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope? Alas, it is ponderous, and moving on in might, that a Sisyphus may not stop it; But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day. HENRY VAUGHAN. THE SEED GROWING SECRETLY. | Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, bear fruit, earn life, and watch, Till the white-winged reapers come! THEY ARE ALL GONE. THEY are all gone into the world of light, And I alone sit lingering here! And moons, though full, would get Their very memory is fair and bright, them down. Let glory be their bait whose minds Are all too high for a low cell: Though hawks can prey through storms and winds, The poor bee in her hive must dwell. Glory, the crowd's cheap tinsel, still To what most takes them is a drudge; And they too oft take good for ill, And thriving vice for virtue judge. What needs a conscience calm and bright Within itself an outward test? Who breaks his glass to take more light, Makes way for storms into his rest. And my sad thoughts doth clear. It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast, Like stars upon some gloomy grove, Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest After the sun's remove. I see them walking in an air of glory, Whose light doth trample on my days; My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, Mere glimmering and decays. O holy hope! and high humility! To kindle my cold love. After sun-rising; far-day sullies flowers. Rise to prevent the sun; sleep doth sins glut, And heaven's gate opens when this world's is shut. Serve God before the world; let him not go, Until thou hast a blessing; then resign The whole unto him; and remember who Prevail'd by wrestling ere the sun did shine. Pour oil upon the stones; weep for thy sin; Then journey on, and have an eye to heaven. thou thy ground. Who sells religion is a Judas Jew; And, oaths once broke, the soul cannot be sound. The perjurer's a devil let loose: Tie up his hands, that dares mock Seek not the same steps with the crowd; stick thou To thy sure trot; a constant, humble mind Is both his own joy, and his Maker's too: Let folly dust it on, or lag behind. A sweet self-privacy in a right soul Outruns the earth, and lines the utmost pole. |