LIFE

Without haste and without rest; Bind the motto to thy breast. Bear it with thee as a spell, Storm or sunshine, guard it well! Heed not flowers that round thee bloom; Bear it onward to the tomb! Haste not—let no thoughtless deed Mar the spirit's steady speed; Ponder well, and know the right, Onward, then, with all thy might; Haste not—years can ne'er atone For one reckless action done! Rest not—life is sweeping by. Do and dare before you die; Something worthy and sublime Leave behind to conquer time; Glorious 'tis to live for aye, When these forms have passed away. Haste not—rest not. Calm in strife Meekly bear the storms of life; Duty be thy polar guide; Do the right, whate'er betide; Haste not—rest not. Conflicts past, God shall crown thy work at last! —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

I live for those who love me; For those I know are true; For the heaven that smiles above me And awaits my spirit too; For all human ties that bind me, For the task my God assigned me, For the bright hope left behind me, And the good that I can do. I live to learn their story Who suffered for my sake, To emulate their glory And follow in their wake; Bards, martyrs, patriots, sages, The nobles of all ages. Whose deeds crown History's pages And time's great volume make. I live to hail the season— By gifted minds foretold— When man shall live by reason, And not alone for gold; When man to man united, And every wrong thing righted, The whole world shall be lighted As Eden was of old. I live to hold communion With all that is divine, To feel that there is union 'Twixt nature's heart and mine; To profit by affliction, Reap truth from fields of fiction, Grow wiser from conviction, Fulfilling God's design. I live for those who love me, For those who know me true, For the heaven that smiles above me And awaits my spirit too; For the wrongs that need resistance, For the cause that needs assistance, For the future in the distance, And the good that I can do. —George Linnæus Banks.

Beautiful faces are those that wear— It matters little if dark or fair— Whole-souled honesty printed there. Beautiful eyes are those that show Like crystal panes where hearth fires glow, Beautiful thoughts that burn below. Beautiful lips are those whose words Leap from the heart like songs of birds, Yet whose utterances prudence girds. Beautiful hands are those that do Work that is earnest, and brave, and true, Moment by moment the long day through. Beautiful feet are those that go On kindly ministries to and fro— Down lowliest ways, if God wills it so. Beautiful shoulders are those that bear Ceaseless burdens of homely care With patient grace and daily prayer. Beautiful lives are those that bless— Silent rivers of happiness Whose hidden fountain but few may guess. Beautiful twilight, at set of sun; Beautiful goal, with race well won; Beautiful rest, with work well done. Beautiful graves, where grasses creep, Where brown leaves fall, where drifts lie deep Over worn-out hands—O, beautiful sleep.

It isn't the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you've left undone Which gives you a bit of heartache At the setting of the sun. The tender word forgotten, The letter you did not write, The flower you might have sent, dear, Are your haunting ghosts to-night. The stone you might have lifted Out of a brother's way, The bit of heartsome counsel You were hurried too much to say, The loving touch of the hand, dear, The gentle and winsome tone That you had no time or thought for, With troubles enough of your own. The little act of kindness, So easily out of mind; Those chances to be angels, Which every mortal finds— They come in night and silence— Each chill, reproachful wraith— When hope is faint and flagging, And a blight has dropped on faith. For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, To suffer our slow compassion That tarries until too late; And it's not the thing you do, dear, It's the thing you leave undone, Which gives you the bit of heartache At the setting of the sun. —Margaret E. Sangster.

All are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is, or low; Each thing in its place is best; And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise Time is with material filled; Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Make the house where gods may dwell Beautiful, entire, and clean; Else our lives are incomplete, Standing in these walls of Time, Broken stairways, where the feet Stumble as they seek to climb. Build to-day, then, strong and sure, With a firm and ample base; And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets where the eye Sees the world as one vast plain And one boundless reach of sky. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

The stars shall fade away, the sun himself Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years, But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth, Unhurt amid the war of elements, The wreck of matter, and the crash of worlds. —Joseph Addison.

He was better to me than all my hopes, He was better than all my fears; He made a road of my broken works And a rainbow of my tears. The billows that guarded my sea girt path But carried my Lord on their crest; When I dwell on the days of my wilderness march I can lean on his love for the rest. He emptied my hands of my treasured store And his covenant love revealed; There was not a wound in my aching heart But the balm of his breath hath healed. Oh! tender and true was the chastening sore, In wisdom, that taught and tried, Till the soul that he sought was trusting in him And in nothing on earth beside. He guided by paths that I could not see, By ways that I have not known, The crooked was straight and the rough made plain, As I followed the Lord alone. I praise him still for the pleasant palms And the water springs by the way; For the glowing pillars of flame by night And the sheltering clouds by day. There is light for me on the trackless wild As the wonders of old I trace, When the God of the whole earth went before To search me a resting place. Has he changed for me? Nay! He changes not. He will bring me by some new way, Through fire and flood and each crafty foe, As safely as yesterday. And if to warfare he calls me forth, He buckles my armor on; He greets me with smiles and a word of cheer For battles his sword hath won; He wipes my brows as I droop and faint, He blesses my hand to toil; Faithful is he as he washes my feet, From the trace of each earthly soil. Never a watch on the dreariest halt But some promise of love endears; I read from the past that my future shall be Far better than all my fears. Like the golden pot of the wilderness bread, Laid up with the blossoming rod, All safe in the ark, with the law of the Lord, Is the covenant care of my God. —Anna Shipton.

O to serve God for a day! From jubilant morn to the peace and the calm of the night To tread no path but his happy and blossoming way, To seek no delight But the joy that is one with the joy at heaven's heart; Only to go where thou art, O God of all blessing and beauty! to love, to obey With obedience sweetened by love and love made strong by the right; Not once, not once to be drunken with self, Or to play the hypocrite's poisoned part, Or to bend the knee of my soul to the passion for pelf, Or the glittering gods of the mart; Through each glad hour to lay on the wings of its flight Some flower for the angels' sight; Some fragrant fashion of service, scarlet and white— White for the pure intent, and red where the pulses start. O, if thus I could serve him, could perfectly serve him one day, I think I could perfectly serve him forever—forever and aye!

—Amos R. Wells.

Life is a burden; bear it. Life is a duty; dare it. Life is a thorn crown; wear it. Though it break your heart in twain, Though the burden crush you down, Close your lips and hide the pain; First the cross and then the crown.

Better to smell the violet cool than sip the glowing wine; Better to hark a hidden brook than watch a diamond shine.

Better the love of gentle heart than beauty's favors proud, Better the rose's living seed than roses in a crowd.

Better to love in loneliness than bask in love all day; Better the fountain in the heart than the fountain by the way.

Better be fed by a mother's hand than eat alone at will; Better to trust in God than say, My goods my storehouse fill.

Better to be a little wise than in knowledge to abound; Better to teach a child than toil to fill perfection's round.

Better sit at a master's feet than thrill a listening state; Better suspect that thou art proud than be sure that thou art great.

Better to walk in the realm unseen than watch the hour's event; Better the well done at the last than the air with shoutings rent.

Better to have a quiet grief than a hurrying delight; Better the twilight of the dawn than the noonday burning bright.

Better to sit at the water's birth than a sea of waves to win; To live in the love that floweth forth than the love that cometh in.

Better a death when work is done than earth's most favored birth; Better a child in God's great house than the king of all the earth.

—George Macdonald.

Time is indeed a precious boon, But with the boon a task is given: The heart must learn its duty well To man on earth and God in heaven. —Eliza Cook.

Are your sorrows hard to bear? Life is short! Do you drag the chain of care? Life is short! Soon will come the glad release Into rest and joy and peace; Soon the weary thread be spun, And the final labor done. Keep your courage! Hold the fort! Life is short! Are you faint with hope delayed? Life is long! Tarries that for which you prayed? Life is long! What delights may not abide— What ambitions satisfied— What possessions may not be In God's great eternity? Lift the heart! Be glad and strong! Life is long! —Amos R. Wells.

Is life worth living? Yes, so long As there is wrong to right, Wail of the weak against the strong, Or tyranny to fight; Long as there lingers gloom to chase, Or streaming tear to dry, One kindred woe, one sorrowing face, That smiles as we draw nigh; Long as a tale of anguish swells The heart and lids grow wet, And at the sound of Christmas bells We pardon and forget; So long as Faith with Freedom reigns And loyal Hope survives, And gracious Charity remains To leaven lowly lives; While there is one untrodden tract For Intellect or Will, And men are free to think and act, Life is worth living still. —Alfred Austin.

The Moving Finger writes, and having writ Moves on; nor all thy piety nor wit Shall lure it back to cancel half a line, Nor all thy tears wash out a word of it. —Omar Khayyam.

He liveth long who liveth well; All other life is short and vain; He liveth longest who can tell Of living most for heavenly gain. He liveth long who liveth well; All else is being flung away; He liveth longest who can tell Of true things truly done each day. Waste not thy being; back to him Who freely gave it, freely give; Else is that being but a dream; 'Tis but to be, and not to live. Be wise, and use thy wisdom well; Who wisdom speaks must live it too; He is the wisest who can tell How first he lived, then spoke the true. Be what thou seemest! live thy creed! Hold up to earth the torch divine; Be what thou prayest to be made; Let the great Master's steps be thine. Fill up each hour with what will last; Buy up the moments as they go; The life above, when this is past, Is the ripe fruit of life below. Sow truth if thou the true wouldst reap; Who sows the false shall reap the vain; Erect and sound thy conscience keep; From hollow words and deeds refrain. Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure; Sow peace and reap its harvest bright; Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor, And find a harvest-home of light. —Horatius Bonar.

We would fill the hours with the sweetest things If we had but a day; We should drink alone at the purest springs In our upward way; We should love with a lifetime's love in an hour If the hours were few; We should rest not for dreams, but for fresher power To be and to do. We should guide our wayward or wearied wills By the clearest light; We should keep our eyes on the heavenly hills If they lay in sight; We should trample the pride and the discontent Beneath our feet; We should take whatever a good God sent, With a trust complete. We should waste no moments in weak regret If the day were but one; If what we remember and what we forget Went out with the sun; We should be from our clamorous selves set free To work and to pray, And to be what the Father would have us to be, If we had but a day. —Mary Lowe Dickinson.

Ye who would have your features florid, Lithe limbs, bright eyes, unwrinkled forehead, From age's devastation horrid, Adopt this plan— 'Twill make, in climate cold or torrid, A hale old man: Avoid in youth luxurious diet; Restrain the passion's lawless riot; Devoted to domestic quiet, Be wisely gay; So shall ye, spite of age's fiat, Resist decay. Seek not in Mammon's worship pleasure, But find your richest, dearest treasure In God, his word, his work; not leisure. The mind, not sense, Is the sole scale by which to measure Your opulence. This is the solace, this the science, Life's purest, sweetest, best appliance, That disappoints not man's reliance, Whate'er his state; But challenges, with calm defiance, Time, fortune, fate. —Horace Smith.

Strength for to-day is all that we need, As there never will be a to-morrow; For to-morrow will prove but another to-day, With its measure of joy and sorrow. Then why forecast the trials of life With such sad and grave persistence, And watch and wait for a crowd of ills That as yet have no existence? Strength for to-day—what a precious boon For the earnest souls who labor, For the willing hands that minister To the needy friend and neighbor. Strength for to-day—that the weary hearts In the battle for right may quail not, And the eyes bedimmed with bitter tears In their search for light may fail not. Strength for to-day, on the down-hill track, For the travelers near the valley, That up, far up, the other side Ere long they may safely rally. Strength for to-day—that our precious youth May happily shun temptation, And build, from the rise to the set of the sun, On a strong and sure foundation. Strength for to-day, in house and home, To practice forbearance sweetly; To scatter kind deeds and loving words Still trusting in God completely.

Like the star That shines afar Without haste And without rest, Let each man wheel with steady sway Round the task that rules the day, And do his best! —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

Who learns and learns, and acts not what he knows, Is one who plows and plows, but never sows.

Lo here hath been dawning Another blue day; Think; wilt thou let it Slip useless away? Out of eternity This new day is born; Into eternity At night will return. Behold it aforetime No eye ever did; So soon it forever From all eyes is hid. Here hath been dawning Another blue day; Think; wilt thou let it Slip useless away? —Thomas Carlyle.

Lord, for to-morrow and its needs I do not pray; Keep me, my God, from stain of sin Just for to-day. Help me to labor earnestly, And duly pray; Let me be kind in word and deed, Father, to-day. Let me no wrong or idle word Unthinking say; Set thou a seal upon my lips Through all to-day. Let me in season, Lord, be grave, In season gay; Let me be faithful to thy grace, Dear Lord, to-day. And if, to-day, this life of mine Should ebb away, Give me thy sacrament divine, Father, to-day. So for to-morrow and its needs I do not pray; Still keep me, guide me, love me, Lord, Through each to-day. —Ernest R. Wilberforce.

That life is long which answers life's great end; The time that bears no fruit deserves no name; The man of wisdom is the man of years. —Edward Young.

If I could live to God for just one day, One blessed day, from rosy dawn of light Till purple twilight deepened into night, A day of faith unfaltering, trust complete, Of love unfeigned and perfect charity, Of hope undimmed, of courage past dismay, Of heavenly peace, patient humility— No hint of duty to constrain my feet, No dream of ease to lull to listlessness, Within my heart no root of bitterness, No yielding to temptation's subtle sway, Methinks, in that one day would so expand My soul to meet such holy, high demand That never, never more could hold me bound This shriveling husk of self that wraps me round. So might I henceforth live to God alway. —Susan E. Gammons.

Forget the past and live the present hour; Now is the time to work, the time to fill The soul with noblest thoughts, the time to will Heroic deeds, to use whatever dower Heaven has bestowed, to test our utmost power. Now is the time to live, and, better still, To serve our loved ones; over passing ill To rise triumphant; thus the perfect flower Of life shall come to fruitage; wealth amass For grandest giving ere the time be gone. Be glad to-day—to-morrow may bring tears; Be brave to-day; the darkest night will pass And golden days will usher in the dawn; Who conquers now shall rule the coming years. —Sarah Knowles Bolton.

The hours are viewless angels, That still go gliding by, And bear each minute's record up To him who sits on high; And we who walk among them, As one by one departs, See not that they are hovering Forever round our hearts. Like summer bees that hover Around the idle flowers, They gather every act and thought, Those viewless angel-hours; The poison or the nectar The heart's deep flower cups yield, A sample still they gather swift, And leave us in the field. And some flit by on pinions Of joyous gold and blue, And some flag on with drooping wing Of sorrow's darker hue; But still they steal the record And bear it far away; Their mission-flight, by day and night, No magic power can stay. And as we spend each minute That God to us has given, The deeds are known before his throne, The tale is told in heaven. Those bee-like hours we see not, Nor hear their noiseless wings; We often feel—too oft—when flown That they have left their stings. So teach me, heavenly Father, To meet each flying hour, That as they go they may not show My heart a poison flower! So, when death brings its shadows, The hours that linger last Shall bear my hopes on angels' wings, Unfettered by the past. —Christopher Pearse Cranch.

The hours of rest are over, The hours of toil begin; The stars above have faded, The moon has ceased to shine. The earth puts on her beauty Beneath the sun's red ray; And I must rise to labor. What is my work to-day? To search for truth and wisdom, To live for Christ alone, To run my race unburdened, The goal my Father's throne; To view by faith the promise, While earthly hopes decay; To serve the Lord with gladness— This is my work to-day. To shun the world's allurements, To bear my cross therein, To turn from all temptation, To conquer every sin; To linger, calm and patient, Where duty bids me stay, To go where God may lead me— This is my work to-day. To keep my troth unshaken, Though others may deceive; To give with willing pleasure, Or still with joy receive; To bring the mourner comfort, To wipe sad tears away; To help the timid doubter— This is my work to-day. To bear another's weakness, To soothe another's pain; To cheer the heart repentant, And to forgive again; To commune with the thoughtful, To guide the young and gay; To profit all in season— This is my work to-day. I think not of to-morrow, Its trial or its task; But still, with childlike spirit, For present mercies ask. With each returning morning I cast old things away; Life's journey lies before me; My prayer is for to-day.

There are loyal hearts, there are spirits brave, There are souls that are pure and true; Then give to the world the best you have. And the best will come back to you. Give love, and love to your life will flow, And strength in your inmost needs; Have faith, and a score of hearts will show Their faith in your work and deeds. Give truth, and your gifts will be paid in kind, And song a song will meet; And the smile which is sweet will surely find A smile that is just as sweet. Give pity and sorrow to those who mourn; You will gather in flowers again The scattered seeds from your thought outborne, Though the sowing seemed in vain. For life is the mirror of king and slave, 'Tis just what we are and do; Then give to the world the best you have And the best will come back to you. —Madeline S. Bridges.

When I have time so many things I'll do To make life happier and more fair For those whose lives are crowded now with care; I'll help to lift them from their low despair When I have time. When I have time the friend I love so well Shall know no more these weary, toiling days; I'll lead her feet in pleasant paths always And cheer her heart with words of sweetest praise, When I have time. When you have time! The friend you hold so dear May be beyond the reach of all your sweet intent; May never know that you so kindly meant To fill her life with sweet content When you had time. Now is the time! Ah, friend, no longer wait To scatter loving smiles and words of cheer To those around whose lives are now so drear; They may not need you in the coming year— Now is the time!

What though the dark close round, the storm increase, Though friends depart, all earthly comforts cease; Hath He not said, I give my children peace? Believe his word.

To murmur, fret, repine, lament, bemoan— How sinful, stupid, wrong! God's on the throne, Does all in wisdom, ne'er forgets his own. Be filled with praise.

Think much of God, 'twill save thy soul from sin; Without his presence let no act begin; Look up, keep vigil, fear not; thou shalt win. See him in all.

He said, "I come, O God, to do thy will." Shall we not, likewise, all his word fulfill, And find a weapon firm 'gainst every ill? Put on the Lord.

Let not the conflict make thee sour or sad; Swerve not from battle: faithful, loyal, glad— The likeness of our Saviour may be had. Aim high, press on! —James Mudge.

Forenoon and afternoon and night,—Forenoon, And afternoon, and night,—Forenoon, and—what? The empty song repeats itself. No more? Yea, that is Life: make this forenoon sublime, This afternoon a psalm, this night a prayer, And Time is conquered, and thy crown is won. —Edward Rowland Sill.

What shall I pack up to carry From the old year to the new? I'll leave out the frets that harry, Thoughts unjust and doubts untrue. Angry words—ah, how I rue them! Selfish deeds and choices blind; Any one is welcome to them! I shall leave them all behind. Plans? the trunk would need be double. Hopes? they'd burst the stoutest lid. Sharp ambitions? last year's stubble! Take them, old year! Keep them hid! All my fears shall be forsaken, All my failures manifold; Nothing gloomy shall be taken To the new year from the old. But I'll pack the sweet remembrance Of dear Friendship's least delight; All my jokes—I'll carry them hence; All my store of fancies bright; My contentment—would 'twere greater! All the courage I possess; All my trust—there's not much weight there! All my faith, or more, or less; All my tasks; I'll not abandon One of these—nay pride, my health; Every trivial or grand one Is a noble mine of wealth. And I'll pack my choicest treasures: Smiles I've seen and praises heard, Memories of unselfish pleasures, Cheery looks, the kindly word. Ah, my riches silence cavil! To my rags I bid adieu! Like a Crœsus I shall travel From the old year to the new! —Amos R. Wells.

The stars shine over the earth, The stars shine over the sea; The stars look up to the mighty God, The stars look down on me. The stars have lived for a million years A million years and a day; But God and I shall love and live When the stars have passed away.

They do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door And bid you wake and ride to fight and win. Wail not for precious chances passed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane! Each night I burn the records of the day; At sunrise every soul is born again. Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgments seal the dead past with its dead But never bind a moment yet to come. Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; I lend my arm to all who say "I can!" No shamefaced outcast ever sank so deep But yet might rise and be again a man. Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast? Dost reel from righteous retribution's blow? Then turn from blotted archives of the past And find the future's pages white as snow. Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell! Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven! Each morning gives thee wings to flee from hell, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven. —Walter Malone.

Though life is made up of mere bubbles 'Tis better than many aver, For while we've a whole lot of troubles The most of them never occur. —Nixon Waterman.

A happy lot must sure be his— The lord, not slave, of things— Who values life by what it is And not by what it brings. —John Sterling.

"How shall I a habit break?" As you did that habit make. As you gathered you must lose; As you yielded, now refuse. Thread by thread the strands we twist Till they bind us neck and wrist; Thread by thread the patient hand Must untwine ere free we stand. As we builded, stone by stone, We must toil—unhelped, alone— Till the wall is overthrown. But remember: as we try, Lighter every test goes by; Wading in, the stream grows deep Toward the center's downward sweep; Backward turn—each step ashore Shallower is than that before. Ah, the precious years we waste Leveling what we raised in haste; Doing what must be undone Ere content or love be won! First across the gulf we cast Kite-borne threads, till lives are passed, And habit builds the bridge at last!

We are building every day In a good or evil way, And the structure, as it grows, Will our inmost self disclose, Till in every arch and line All our faults and failings shine; It may grow a castle grand, Or a wreck upon the sand. Do you ask what building this That can show both pain and bliss, That can be both dark and fair? Lo, its name is character! Build it well, whate'er you do; Build it straight and strong and true; Build it clear and high and broad; Build it for the eye of God. —I. E. Dickenga.

Nor love thy life, nor hate; but what thou livest Live well, how long or short permit to heaven. —John Milton.

Slowly fashioned, link by link, Slowly waxing strong, Till the spirit never shrink, Save from touch of wrong. Holy habits are thy wealth, Golden, pleasant chains; Passing earth's prime blessing—health, Endless, priceless gains. Holy habits give thee place With the noblest, best, All most godlike of thy race, And with seraphs blest. Holy habits are thy joy, Wisdom's pleasant ways, Yielding good without alloy, Lengthening, too, thy days. Seek them, Christian, night and morn; Seek them noon and even; Seek them till thy soul be born Without stains—in heaven. —Thomas Davis.

Make haste, O man! to live, For thou so soon must die; Time hurries past thee like the breeze; How swift its moments fly. Make haste, O man! to live. Make haste, O man! to do Whatever must be done, Thou hast no time to lose in sloth, Thy day will soon be gone. Make haste, O man! to live. To breathe, and wake, and sleep, To smile, to sigh, to grieve, To move in idleness through earth, This, this is not to live. Make haste, O man! to live. The useful, not the great; The thing that never dies, The silent toil that is not lost, Set these before thine eyes. Make haste, O man! to live. Make haste, O man! to live. Thy time is almost o'er; Oh! sleep not, dream not, but arise, The Judge is at the door. Make haste, O man! to live. —Horatius Bonar.

Teach me to live! 'Tis easier far to die— Gently and silently pass away— On earth's long night to close the heavy eye And waken in the glorious realms of day. Teach me that harder lesson—how to live; To serve thee in the darkest paths of life; Arm me for conflict now, fresh vigor give, And make me more than conqueror in the strife. Teach me to live thy purpose to fulfill; Bright for thy glory let my taper shine; Each day renew, remold this stubborn will; Closer round thee my heart's affections twine. Teach me to live for self and sin no more; But use the time remaining to me yet; Not mine own pleasure seeking as before, Wasting no precious hours in vain regret. Teach me to live; no idler let me be, But in thy service hand and heart employ. Prepared to do thy bidding cheerfully— Be this my highest and my holiest joy. Teach me to live—my daily cross to bear, Nor murmur though I bend beneath its load. Only be with me, let me feel thee near, Thy smile sheds gladness on the darkest road. Teach me to live and find my life in thee, Looking from earth and earthly things away. Let me not falter, but untiringly Press on, and gain new strength and power each day. Teach me to live with kindly words for all, Wearing no cold repulsive brow of gloom, Waiting with cheerful patience till thy call Summons my spirit to her heavenly home.

Master of human destinies am I, Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait, Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late I knock, unbidden, once at every gate! If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise—before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt, or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore; I answer not, and I return no more. —John James Ingalls.

So much to do; so little done! Ah! yesternight I saw the sun Sink beamless down the vaulted gray— The ghastly ghost of yesterday. So little done; so much to do! Each morning breaks on conflicts new; But eager, brave, I'll join the fray, And fight the battle of to-day. So much to do; so little done! But when it's o'er—the victory won— O then, my soul, this strife and sorrow Will end in that great, glad to-morrow! —James Roberts Gilmore.

Three men went out one summer night; No care had they or aim. They dined and drank. Ere we go home We'll have, they said, a game. Three girls began that summer night A life of endless shame, And went through drink, disease, and death As swift as racing flame. Lawless, homeless, foul, they died; Rich, loved, and praised, the men. But when they all shall meet with God, And Justice speaks, what then? —Stopford Augustus Brooke.

This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream: There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king's son bears—but this Blunt thing——!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it and, with battle-shout Lifted afresh, he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day. —Edward Rowland Sill.

Live while you live, the epicure would say, And seize the pleasures of the passing day! Live while you live, the sacred preacher cries, And give to God each moment as it flies! Lord, in my views let both united be; I live in pleasure when I live to thee. —Philip Doddridge.

It is bad to have an empty purse, But an empty head is a whole lot worse. —Nixon Waterman.

Shut your mouth, and open your eyes, And you're sure to learn something to make you wise. —Nixon Waterman.

Once, in the flight of ages past, There lived a man, and who was he? Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast, That man resembled thee. Unknown the region of his birth; The land in which he died unknown; His name has perished from the earth; This truth survives alone: That joy and grief and hope and fear, Alternate triumphed in his breast; His bliss and woe—a smile, a tear! Oblivion hides the rest. He suffered—but his pangs are o'er; Enjoyed—but his delights are fled; Had friends—his friends are now no more; And foes—his foes are dead. He saw whatever thou hast seen; Encountered all that troubles thee; He was—whatever thou hast been; He is—what thou shalt be. The rolling seasons, day and night, Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and man, Erewhile his portion, life, and light, To him exist in vain. The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky No vestige where they flew. The annals of the human race, Their ruins, since the world began, Of him afford no other trace Than this—there lived a man. —James Montgomery.

Happy the man, and happy he alone, He who can call to-day his own; He who, secure within, can say, "To-morrow, do thy worst; for I have lived to-day. Be fair or foul, or rain or shine, The joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not heaven itself upon the past has power, But what has been has been, and I have had my hour." —Horace, tr. by John Dryden.

If this little world to-night Suddenly should fall through space In a hissing, headlong flight, Shriveling from off its face, As it falls into the sun, In an instant every trace Of the little crawling things— Ants, philosophers, and lice, Cattle, cockroaches, and kings, Beggars, millionaires, and mice, Men and maggots—all as one As it falls into the sun— Who can say but at the same Instant, from some planet far, A child may watch us and exclaim, "See the pretty shooting star!" —Oliver Herford.

Think not alone to do right, and fulfill Life's due perfection by the simple worth Of lawful actions called by justice forth, And thus condone a world confused with ill! But fix the high condition of thy will To be right, that its good's spontaneous birth May spread like flowers springing from the earth On which the natural dews of heaven distill; For these require no honors, take no care For gratitude from men—but more are blessed In the sweet ignorance that they are fair; And through their proper functions live and rest, Breathing their fragrance out with joyous air, Content with praise of bettering what is best. —William Davies.

And, since we needs must hunger, better for man's love Than God's truth! better for companions sweet Than great convictions! let us bear our weights Preferring dreary hearths to desert souls. —Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Since all the riches of this world May be gifts from the devil and earthly kings, I should suspect that I worshiped the devil If I thanked my God for worldly things. —William Blake.

Trust to the Lord to hide thee, Wait on the Lord to guide thee, So shall no ill betide thee Day by day. Rise with his fear before thee, Tell of the love he bore thee, Sleep with his shadow o'er thee, Day by day.

Four things a man must learn to do If he would make his record true: To think without confusion clearly; To love his fellow-men sincerely; To act from honest motives purely; To trust in God and heaven securely. —Henry van Dyke.

Each moment holy is, for out from God Each moment flashes forth a human soul. Holy each moment is, for back to him Some wandering soul each moment home returns. —Richard Watson Gilder.

At thirty man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; At fifty chides his infamous delay, Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve; In all the magnanimity of thought Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. —Edward Young.

Abundance is the blessing of the wise; The use of riches in discretion lies; Learn this, ye men of wealth: a heavy purse In a fool's pocket is a heavy curse. —From the Greek.

Dear is my friend, but my foe too Is friendly to my good; My friend the thing shows I can do, My foe the thing I should. —Johann C. F. von Schiller.

How does the soul grow? Not all in a minute; Now it may lose ground, and now it may win it; Now it resolves, and again the will faileth; Now it rejoiceth, and now it bewaileth; Now its hopes fructify, then they are blighted; Now it walks sunnily, now gropes benighted; Fed by discouragements, taught by disaster, So it goes forward, now slower, now faster; Till, all the pain past and failure made whole, It is full grown, and the Lord rules the soul. —Susan Coolidge.

Life is too short to waste In critic peep or cynic bark, Quarrel, or reprimand. 'Twill soon be dark; Up! mind thine own aim, and God speed the mark! —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow-fall in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form, Evanishing amid the storm. —Robert Burns.

I saw a farmer plow his land who never came to sow; I saw a student filled with truth to practice never go; In land or mind I never saw the ripened harvest grow. —Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

To those who prattle of despair Some friend, methinks, might wisely say: Each day, no question, has its care, But also every care its day. —John Sterling.

What imports Fasting or feasting? Do thy day's work; dare Refuse no help thereto; since help refused Is hindrance sought and found. —Robert Browning.

I go to prove my soul! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive! What time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time. —Robert Browning.

Art thou in misery, brother? Then, I pray, Be comforted; thy grief shall pass away. Art thou elated? Ah! be not too gay; Temper thy joy; this, too, shall pass away. Whate'er thou art, where'er thy footsteps stray, Heed the wise words: "This, too, shall pass away."

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths, In feelings, not in figures on a dial. We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. Life's but a means unto an end; that end Beginning, mean, and end to all things—God. —Philip James Bailey.

We say, and we say, and we say, We promise, engage, and declare, Till a year from to-morrow is yesterday And yesterday is—where? —James Whitcomb Riley.

To be sincere. To look life in the eyes With calm, undrooping gaze. Always to mean The high and truthful thing. Never to screen Behind the unmeant word the sharp surprise Of cunning; never tell the little lies Of look or thought. Always to choose between The true and small, the true and large, serene And high above Life's cheap dishonesties. The soul that steers by this unfading star Needs never other compass. All the far, Wide waste shall blaze with guiding light, though rocks And sirens meet and mock its straining gaze. Secure from storms and all Life's battle-shocks It shall not veer from any righteous ways. —Maurice Smiley.

The lily's lips are pure and white without a touch of fire; The rose's heart is warm and red and sweetened with desire. In earth's broad fields of deathless bloom the gladdest lives are those Whose thoughts are as the lily and whose love is like the rose.

—Nixon Waterman.

We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the coming life is made, And fill our future's atmosphere With sunshine or with shade. The tissue of the life to be We weave with colors all our own, And in the field of destiny We reap as we have sown. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

The miller feeds the mill, and the mill the miller; So death feeds life, and life, too, feeds its killer. —John Sterling.

If I were dead I think that you would come And look upon me, cold and white, and say, "Poor child! I'm sorry you have gone away." But just because my body has to live Through hopeless years, you do not come and say, "Dear child, I'm glad that you are here to-day."

Who heeds not experience, trust him not; tell him The scope of our mind can but trifles achieve; The weakest who draws from the mine will excel him— The wealth of mankind is the wisdom they leave. —John Boyle O'Reilly.

A pious friend one day of Rabia asked How she had learned the truth of Allah wholly; By what instructions was her memory tasked? How was her heart estranged from the world's folly? She answered, "Thou who knowest God in parts Thy spirit's moods and processes canst tell: I only know that in my heart of hearts I have despised myself and loved him well."

There is a tide in the affairs of men Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries. —William Shakespeare.

Why wakes not life the desert bare and lone? To show what all would be if she were gone. —John Sterling.

So live that, when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not like the quarry slave at night Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him and lies down to pleasant dreams. —William Cullen Bryant.

The time is short. If thou wouldst work for God it must be now. If thou wouldst win the garlands for thy brow, Redeem the time. I sometimes feel the thread of life is slender; And soon with me the labor will be wrought; Then grows my heart to other hearts more tender; The time is short.

The man who idly sits and thinks May sow a nobler crop than corn; For thoughts are seeds of future deeds, And when God thought, the world was born. —George John Romanes.

Thought is deeper than all speech, Feeling deeper than all thought; Souls to souls can never teach What unto themselves was taught. —Christopher Pearse Cranch.

That thou mayst injure no man dovelike be, And serpentlike that none may injure thee.

The poem hangs on the berry bush When comes the poet's eye. The street begins to masquerade When Shakespeare passes by. —William C. Gannett.

Be thou a poor man and a just And thou mayest live without alarm; For leave the good man Satan must, The poor the Sultan will not harm. —From the Persian.

Diving, and finding no pearls in the sea, Blame not the ocean; the fault is in thee! —From the Persian.

All habits gather by unseen degrees; As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas. —John Dryden.

Habits are soon assumed, but when we strive To strip them off 'tis being flayed alive. —William Cowper.

So live that when the mighty caravan, Which halts one night-time in the Vale of Death, Shall strike its white tents for the morning march, Thou shalt mount onward to the Eternal Hills, Thy foot unwearied, and thy strength renewed Like the strong eagle's for the upward flight.

And see all sights from pole to pole, And glance and nod and bustle by, And never once possess our soul Before we die. —Matthew Arnold.

Catch, then, O catch the transient hour; Improve each moment as it flies; Life's a short summer—man a flower. —Dr. Samuel Johnson.

This world's no blot for us Nor blank; it means intensely, and means good: To find its meaning is my meat and drink. —Robert Browning.

What is life? 'Tis not to stalk about, and draw fresh air, Or gaze upon the sun. 'Tis to be free. —Joseph Addison.

I see the right, and I approve it too, Condemn the wrong, and yet the wrong pursue. —Ovid.

God asks not "To what sect did he belong?" But, "Did he do the right, or love the wrong?" —From the Persian.

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, Only a signal shown and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life we pass and speak one another, Only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

One wept all night beside a sick man's bed: At dawn the sick was well, the mourner dead. —From the Persian.

'Tis life whereof our nerves are scant, O life, not death, for which we pant; More life and fuller that I want. —Alfred Tennyson.