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, Sitting, stitching, in a mournful muse. "Is there from the fishers any news?" Hannah's at the window binding shoes. Fair young Hannah, Ben, the sunburnt fisher, gayly wooes: For a willing heart and hand he sues. And the waves are laughing so! Hannah leaves her window and her shoes. May is passing: 'Mid the apple-boughs a pigeon cooes. For the mild southwester mischief brews. Hannah's at the window binding shoes. Now no tear her wasted cheek bedews. Not a sail returning will she lose, Hannah's at the window binding shoes. Twenty winters Bleach and tear the ragged shores she views. Never one has brought her any news. Chase the white sails o'er the sea: 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, Tears fell, when thou wert dying, When hearts whose truth was proven, And I, who woke each morrow Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine, It should be mine to braid it While memory bids me weep thee, That mourns a man like thee. 231.-WHICH SHALL IT BE? ETHEL L. BEERS. Which shall it be? Which shall it be? And then I, listening, bent my head- A house and land while you shall live, I looked at John's old garments worn, And then of this. "Come, John," said I, We stooped beside the trundle bed, Pale, patient Robbie's angel face "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 And shook his head: "Nay, love, not thee," And so we wrote in courteous way, 232.-LADY CLARE. ALFRED TENNYSON. It was the time when lilies blow, I trow they did not part in scorn: "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?" |