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Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,
Yet I fain would die!
We shall all be soon.
It cannot be too soon; for I am weary
Why seek to know?
I confess, That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, And sinks again into the weltering sca, Helpless and hopeless!
Yet thou shalt not perish. The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO. THE PSALMIST.
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
' Life is but an empty dream!' For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is carnest!
And the grave is not its goal; • Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
Finds us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strife.
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, - act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate; Still aching, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.
UNDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
With large and sinewy hands;
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
He earns whatever he can,
For he owes not any man.
Week in and week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
With measured beat and slow,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
And hear the bellows roar,
Like the chaff from a threshing floor.