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pageantry or a decent burial strikes upon the heart as a mockery of helplessness.

Certain it is that pomp chiefly waits upon the beginning and the end of life: what lies between, may either raise a sigh or wake a laugh, for it mostly partakes of the littleness of one, and the sadness of the other. The monuments of man's blessedness and of man's wretchedness lie side by side: we cannot look for the one without discovering the other. The echo of joy is the moan of despair, and the cry of anguish is stifled in rejoicing. To make a monarch, there must be slaves; and that one may triumph, many must be weak.

To one limiting his belief within the bounds of his observation, "reasoning" but from what he "knows," the condition of man presents mysteries which thought can not explain. The dignity and destiny of man seem utterly at variance. He turns from contemplating a monument of genius to inquire for the genius which produced it, and finds that while the work has survived, the workman has perished for ages. The meanest work of man outlives the noblest work of God. The sculptures of Phidias endure, where the dust of the artist has vanished from the earth. Man can immortalize all things but himself.

But, for my own part, I cannot help thinking that our high estimation of ourselves is the grand error in our account. Surely, it is argued, a creature so ingeniously fashioned and so beautifully furnished, has not been created but for lofty ends. But cast your eye on the humblest rose of the garden, and it may teach a wiser lesson. There you behold contrivance and ornament-in every leaf the finest veins, the most delicate odor, and a perfume exquisite beyond imitation; yet all this is but a toy-a plaything of nature; and surely she whose resources are so boundless that upon the gaud of a summer day she can throw away such lavish wealth, steps not beyond her commonest toil when she forms of the dust a living man. When will man learn the lesson of his own insignificance?

Immortal man! thy blood flows freely and fully, and thou standest a Napoleon; thou reclinest a Shakspeare!-it quickens its movement, and thou liest a parched and fretful thing, with thy mind furied by the phantoms of fever!-it retards its action but a little, and thou crawlest a crouching, soulless mass, the bright world a blank, dead vision to thine eye. Verily, O man, thou art a glorious and godlike being!

Tell life's proudest tale: what is it? A few attempts suc

cessless; a few crushed or moldered hopes; much paltry fretting; a little sleep, and the story is concluded; the curtain falls the farce is over. The world is not a place to live in, but to die in. It is a house that has but two chambers; a lazar and a charnel-room only for the dying and the dead. There is not a spot on the broad earth on which man can plant his foot and affirm with confidence, "No mortal sleeps beneath!”

Seeing then that these things are, what shall we say? Shall we exclaim with the gay-hearted Grecian, "Drink to-day, for to-morrow we are not?" Shall we calmly float down the current, smiling if we can, silent when we must, lulling cares to sleep by the music of gentle enjoyment, and passing dreamlike through a land of dreams? No! dream-like as is our life, there is in it one reality—our DUTY. Let us cling to that, and distress may overwhelm, but cannot disturb us—may destroy, but cannot hurt us: the bitterness of earthly things and the shortness of earthly life will cease to be evils, and begin to be blessings.

229.-HANNAH BINDING SHOES.

LUCY LARCOM.

Poor lone Hannah,

Sitting at the window, binding shoes,
Faded, wrinkled,

Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse.
Bright-eyed beauty once was she,
When the bloom was on the tree:
Spring and winter,
Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
Not a neighbor
Passing nod or answer will refuse
To her whisper,

"Is there from the fishers any news?"
O, her heart's adrift with one
On an endless voyage gone!
Night and morning

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Fair young Hannah,

Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes:
Hale and clever,

For a willing heart and hand he sues.
May-day skies are all aglow,

And the waves are laughing so!
For her wedding

Hannah leaves her window and her shoes.

May is passing:

'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes.
Hannah shudders,

For the mild southwester mischief brews.
Round the rocks of Marblehead,
Outward bound, a schooner sped:
Silent, lonesome,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.
'Tis November;

Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews.
From Newfoundland

Not a sail returning will she lose,
Whispering hoarsely, "Fishermen,
Have you, have you heard of Ben?"
Old with watching,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

Twenty winters

Bleach and tear the ragged shores she views.
Twenty seasons:—

Never one has brought her any news.
Still her dim eyes silently

Chase the white sails o'er the sea:
Hopeless, faithful,

Hannah's at the window binding shoes.

230.-GREEN BE THE TURF.

FITZ-GREENE HALLECK.

"The good die first,

And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust

Burn to the socket."

Wordsworth

Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days;
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell, when thou wert dying,
From eyes unused to weep,
And long where thou art lying,
Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts whose truth was proven,
Like thine, are laid in earth,
There should a wreath be woven,
To tell the world their worth.

And I, who woke each morrow
To clasp thy hand in mine,

Who shared thy joy and sorrow,

Whose weal and woe were thine,

It should be mine to braid it
Around thy faded brow;
But I've in vain essayed it,
And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free,
The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

231.-WHICH SHALL IT BE?

ETHEL L. BEERS.

Which shall it be? Which shall it be?
I looked at John, John looked at me,
And when I found that I must speak
My voice seemed strangely low and weak.
"Tell me again what Robert said:"

And then I, listening, bent my head-
This is his letter: "I will give

A house and land while you shall live,
If, in return, from out your seven,
One child to me for aye is given.'

I looked at John's old garments worn,
I thought of all that he had borne
Of poverty, and work, and care,
Which I, though willing, could not share;
I thought of seven young mouths to feed,
Of seven little children's need,

And then of this. "Come, John," said I,
"We'll choose among them as they lie
Asleep." So, walking hand in hand,
Dear John and I surveyed our band,
First to the cradle lightly stepped
Where Lillian, the baby, slept.
Softly the father stooped to lay
His rough hand down in a loving way,
When dream or whisper made her stir,
And huskily he said: "Not. her!"

We stooped beside the trundle bed,
And one long ray of lamplight shed
Athwart the boyish faces there,
In sleep so beautiful and fair.
I saw on James's rough, red cheek
A tear undried. Ere John could speak,
"They are but babies, too," said I,
And kissed them as we hurried by.

Pale, patient Robbie's angel face
Still in his sleep bore suffering's trace;

"No, for a thousand crowns, not him;" He whispered, while our eyes were dim.

Poor Dick! bad Dick! our wayward sonTurbulent, restless, idle one

Could he be spared? Nay, He who gave
Bade us befriend him to the grave.
Only a mother's heart could be
Patient enough for such as he;
"And so," said John, "I would not dare
To take him from her bedside prayer."
Then stole we softly up above,
And knelt by Mary, child of love.
"Perhaps for her 'twould better be,"
I said to John. Quite silently
He lifted up a curl that lay
Across her cheek in wilful way,

And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee,"
The while my heart beat audibly.
Only one more, our eldest lad,
Trusty and truthful, good and glad,
So like his father. "No, John, no!
I cannot, will not, let him ago."

And so we wrote in courteous way,
We could not give one child away;
And afterward toil lighter seemed,
Thinking of that of which we dreamed,
Happy in truth that not one face
Was missed from its accustomed place;
Thankful to work for all the seven,
Trusting the rest to One in heaven.

232.-LADY CLARE.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

It was the time when lilies blow,
And the clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn:
Lovers long betrothed were they:
They two will wed the morrow morn;
God's blessing on the day!

"He does not love me for my birth,

Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,

Said, "Who was this that went from thee?"

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