My days among the dead are pass'd;
Around me I behold,
Where'er these casual eyes are cast,
The mighty minds of old:
My never-failing friends are they
With whom I converse night and day.
With them I take delight in weal,
And seek relief in woe;
And while I understand and feel
How much to them I owe,
My cheeks have often been bedew'd
With tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the dead: with them
I live in long past years,
Their virtues love, their faults condemn,
Partake their griefs and fears;
And from their sober lessons find
Instruction with a humble mind.
My hopes are with the dead: anon
With them my place will be;
And I with them shall travel on
Through all futurity;
Yet leaving here a name, I trust,
Which will not perish in the dust.
God be thanked for books. They are the voices of the distant and the dead, and make us heirs of the spiritual life of past ages. Books are the true levellers. They give to all who will faithfully use them, the society, the spiritual presence of the best and greatest of our race. No matter how poor I am;-no matter though the prosperous enter not my humble dwelling;-if the best writers take up their abode with me, I shall not pine for want of companionship, and may become a cultivated man, though excluded from what is called the best society of the place in which I live. The great use of books is to rouse us to thought,-to turn us to questions which great men have been working on for ages,-to furnish us with materials for the exercise of judgment, imagination, and moral feeling,-and breathe into us a moral life from spirits nobler than our own.-DR. CHANNING.
New shape and voice, the immortal thought
Takes from the invented speaking page sublime;
The ark which Mind has for its refuge wrought,
Its floating archive down the stream of time.-SCHILLER.
Thoughts flit and flutter through the mind,
As o'er the waves the shifting wind;
Trackless and traceless is their flight,
As falling stars of yesternight,
Or the old tide-marks on the shore
Which other tides have rippled o'er.
Yet art, by Genius trained and taught,
Arrests-records the fleeting thought,
Stamps on the minute or the hour
A lasting, an eternal power,
And to mind's passing shadows gives
An influence that for ever lives.
But mightiest of the mighty means,
On which the arm of Progress leans,
Man's noblest mission to advance,
His woes assuage, his weal enhance,
His rights enforce, his wrongs redress,—
Mightiest of Mighty is The Press.
The world does not know me; to that I appear,
As rapture or grief wakes the smile or the tear,
Now light-now reflective-now mournful-now gay,-
Like the gleams and the clouds of a wild April day.
The wise oft will frown, the contemptuous will smile,
The good oft reprove, yet look kindly the while :
Indifferent to those, I am thankful to them;
But e'en they do not know what it is they condemn.
For it is not the faults which the multitude see
That are wept o'er in secret so wildly by me;
These scarcely a thought from my sorrows can win,-
Oh! would they were all !-but the worst is within.
Thou only dost know me; to thee is reveal'd
The spring of my thoughts, from all others conceal'd.
The enigma is solved, as thou readest my soul;
They view but a part, thou beholdest the whole.
Thou know'st me above, yet below, what I seem,
Both better and worse than the multitude deem;
From my wild wayward heart thou hast lifted the pall
From its faults and its failings,-yet lovest me with all
There is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,
But has one vacant chair!
Let us be patient! these severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.
She is not dead-the child of our affection;
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection
And Christ himself doth rule.
Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her maiden steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.
Then do we talk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives;
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.
Men point at me as smitten by God's frown;
Afflicted and deserted of my kind;
Yet I am not cast down.
I am weak, yet strong;
I murmur not that I no longer see;
Poor, old, and helpless, I the more belong,
Father supreme! to Thee!
When men are furthest, then Thou art most near;
When friends pass by, and my weakness shun,
Thy chariot I hear.
Is leaning towards me; and its holy light
Shines in upon my lonely dwelling-place,
And there is no more night.
I recognise thy purpose, clearly shown:
My vision thou hast dimm'd that I may see
Thyself,-Thyself alone!
Trembling, where foot of mortal ne'er hath been, Wrapp'd in the radiance of thy sinless land, Which eye hath never seen.
Shapes of resplendent beauty round me throng;
From angel lips I seem to hear the flow
Of soft and holy song.
My being fills with rapture-waves of thought
Roll in upon my spirit,-strains sublime
Break over me unsought!
SPEAK GENTLY.
Speak gently!-It is better far
To rule by love than fear-
Speak gently-let not harsh words mar
The good we might do here!
Speak gently!-love doth whisper low
The vows that true hearts bind;
And gently Friendship's accents flow,-
Affection's voice is kind.
Speak gently to the little child!
Its love be sure to gain;
Teach it in accents soft and mild,
It may not long remain.
Speak gently to the young, for they
Will have enough to bear;
Pass through this life as best they may,
"Tis full of anxious care!
Speak gently to the aged one,
Grieve not the careworn heart;
The sands of life are nearly run,
Let such in peace depart.
Speak gently, kindly to the poor-
Let no harsh tone be heard;
They have enough they must endure,
Without an unkind word!
Speak gently to the erring-know
They may have toiled in vain;
Perchance unkindness made them so;
Oh! win them back again!
"Tis not alone in the flush of morn,
In the cowslip-bell, or the blossom thorn,
In noon's high hour, or twilight's hush,
In the shadowy stream, or the rose's blush,
Or in aught that bountiful nature gives,
That the delicate Spirit of Beauty lives.
Oh no, it lives, and breathes, and lies
In a home more pure than the morning skies,
In the innocent heart it loves to dwell,
When it comes with a sigh or a tear to tell,
Sweet visions that flow from a fount of love,
To mingle with all that is pure above.
It dwells with the one whose pitying eye
Looks out on the world in charity;
Whose generous hand delights to heal
The wounds that suffering mourners feel,
Without a wish, or a hope, or thought,
That light should shine on the deeds it wrought.
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