A SONG OF THE PRESENT.

BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR.

Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie, Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed, Not to the moments that have hurried by, Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst. Not to the Future, 'tis a realm where dwell Fair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near, Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel, A land whose hopes find no fruition here. But to the Present: be it dark or bright, Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good; Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light; Its ills are blessings, rightly understood. Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers; Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays, Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours; A cheerful heart turns every thing to praise. Clouds can not always lower, the sun must shine; Grief can not always last, joy's hour will come; Seize as you may, each sunbeam, make it thine, And make thy heart the sunshine's constant home. Nor for thyself alone, a sunny smile Carries a magic nothing can withstand; A cheerful look may many a care beguile, And to the weary be a helping hand. Be brave—clasp thy great sorrows in thy arms; Though eagle-like, they threat, with lifted crest, The dread, the terror which thy soul alarms, Shall turn a peaceful dove upon thy breast.