THE SENSES.

Some eyes are trained to scan large field Till instantaneous glance may yield A knowledge full and plenty; While others keep a narrow ken And view the ways of active men With satisfaction scanty. The optic nerve has power so keen, That ev'ry object by it seen Is stamped upon the brain; But they of sluggish mental mold No vivid photograph will hold, And scarce a scene retain.

The tympanum with perfect drum Hears not the sound when armies come With clarion notes and song, Unless its stimulated nerve Has fully learned to humbly serve In stations which belong To those which God designed should live For special duties, He might give To move mankind along Upon the road toward perfect man, That He might thus reveal His plan, And happiness prolong.

The power that lies in perfect speech Dwells with the few who only reach That art through toil and care; A faulty tongue perverts the ear, Destroys the sense, augments the fear, And feeds on empty air. A nation's destinies have hung Upon the influence of a tongue Whose magic eloquence Has swayed the thoughts of men, whose word Was mightier than the glittering sword Of armies most immense.

The manual touch when guided by The magic power of sympathy That animates the soul, May lead to fields of cultured art And cast an influence on the heart May through all ages roll. The canvass and the stone may speak To more than Roman and to Greek Though in a foreign land; They show the might of cultured skill Directed by an iron will That guides a master's hand.

The perfumed fields of blooming May, The evening scent of new-mown hay Touch nerve olfactory, And carry to the thoughtful brain Loved memories of a long-past train That once was full of glee. Though flowers to-day are choice and rare, In colors they may well compare With richest hues we meet; They lack the charm that gave them power Since past is youth's entrancing hour Their fragrance seems less sweet.

Five roads lead to the human brain And through these roads all must obtain The commerce of all lore; No thought can enter mental port Of any kind or any sort, Of modern days or yore, Except such as a tariff pays To pass these honored, great highways Which lead to eminence, And follow closely every nerve Which God designed should truly serve Each mind of consequence.

Perhaps that star in yonder sky, May be my dwelling place on high, When life on earth is done; At eventide I love to gaze Upon its soft reflected rays, When silent and alone. Its brightness charms and draws my soul, By some mysterious, strong control I cannot well explain, Unless it be within it dwell The friends of earth I loved so well, Who could not here remain.