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Let not Ambition mock their useless toil,
Their homely joys and destiny obscure;
The short and simple annals of the poor.*
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
If Memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre :
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;
And froze the genial current of the soul.
The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear :
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.
The little tyrant of his fields withstood,
Some Cromwell heedless of his country's good.t
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,
And read their history in a nation's eyes,
* In the early editions, the following beautiful stanza was inserted here:
The thoughtless world to majesty may bow,
Exalt the brave, and idolize success;
Than power or genius e'er conspired to bless. + This line has been altered, as the real character of Cromwell was not properly known when the Author was living.
Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
Far from the mad’ning crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray ; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way:
Yet e'en these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.
Their names, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply; And many holy texts around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.
For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign’d, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing, lingering look beliind ?
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
THE DEPARTED DAUGHTER.
I had a little daughter,
And she was given to me
To the heavenly Father's knee,
Might in some dim wise divine
To this wayward soul of mine.
But to me she was wholly fair,
Gleamed from her eyes and her hair.
And it hardly seem'd a day,
J. R. LOWELL. SHOW YOU HAVE A HEART.
In this dull world we cheat ourselves and one another of innocent pleasures by the score, through very carelessness and apathy. Courted day after day by happy memories, we rudely brush them off with the stern material present. Invited to help in rendering joyful many a patient heart, we neglect the little that might have done it, and continually deprive creation of its share of kindness from us. The humble friend encouraged by your frankness – equals made to love you, and superiors gratified by attention and respect, looking out to benefit you kindly-how many pleasures here for one hand to gather; how many blessings for one heart to give! Instead of this what have we rife about the world?. Frigid compliment, reserve, selfishness, for every one is struggling for his own ends. This is all false, all bad : it is the slavery chain of custom rivetted by the foolishness of fashion. There are always persons who have nothing to recommend them but externals, such as their looks, dresses, rank and riches; and in order to exalt the honour of these, they combine to set a compact seal of silence upon the heart and mind. Turn the tables on them ye real gentlemen! speak freely, live warmly, look cheerfully, laugh heartily, explain frankly, exhort zealously, admire liberally, advise earnestly, and thus be not ashamed to show you have a heart. If some cold and selfish worldling greet your social efforts with a sneer, repay him with a good humoured smile; for you possess treasures to which he is an utter stranger.-TUPPER.--Adap.
DR. JOHNSON'S REFLECTIONS ON VISITING IT.*
This illustrious island which was once the luminary of the Caledonian regions, whence savage clans and roving barbarians derived the benefits of knowledge, and the blessings of religion. To abstract the mind from all local emotion would be impossible if it were endeavoured, and would be foolish if it were possible. Whatever draws us from the power of our senses-whatever makes the past, the distant, or the future predominate over the present, advances us in the dignity of thinking beings. Far from me and from my friends be such frigid philosophy as may conduct us, indifferent and unmoved, over any ground which has been dignified by wisdom, bravery or virtue. That man is little to be envied, whose patriotism would not gain force upon the plain of Marathon, or whose piety would not grow warmer among the ruins of Iona.
* St. Columba was a native of Ireland, and landed at Iona in 564, with 12 pious followers called Culdees. He built a monastery, and, along with the Culdees, devoted his life to the dissemination of the Christian religion.
THE SOUL'S DEFIANCE.
I said to sorrow's awful storm,
And lay it low at rest;
Thy tempest raging high
With steadfast eye.”
I said to penury's meagre train,
“Come on! your threats I brave; My last poor life-drop you may drain,
And crush me to the grave; Yet still the spirit that endures
Shall brave your force the while, And meet each cold, hard grasp of yours,
With calmest smile."
I said to cold neglect and scorn,
“ Pass on! I heed you not; Ye may pursue me till my form
And being are forgot;
Undaunted by your wiles,
Its high born smiles."
I said to friendship's menaced blow,
“Strike deep! my heart shall bear, Thou can'st but add one bitter woe
To those already there;
This last severe distress,
Nor seek redress.”
I said to death's uplifted dart,
“ Aim sure! oh, why delay? Thou wilt not find a fearful heart
A weak, reluctant prey;
Triumphant in the last dismay,
Shall smiling pass away.”
There is an evil and a good
In every soul, unknown to thee-
Than aught thine eye can ever see;
Some brother-mind that, reasoning less,
In pain, in love, in weariness :
HYMN OF THE CITY.
Not in the solitude
Only in savage wood
Or only hear His voice
Even here do I behold
Through the great city rolled,
Choking the ways that wind
Thy golden sunshine comes
And lights their inner homes;
And givest them the stores
Thy spirit is around,
And this eternal sound-
Like the resounding sea,
And when the hours of rest
Hushing its billowy breast,
It breathes of Him who keeps