A PSALM OF LIFE.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us further than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,-act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us,

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

THE WAY TO BE HAPPY.

LORD BYRON.

A HERMIT there was, and he lived in a grot,
And the way to be happy they said he had got;
As I wanted to learn it, I went to his cell,
And when I came there, the old hermit said, "Well,
Young man, by your looks, you want something, I see.
Now tell me the business that brings you to me."

"The way to be happy they say you have got, And as I want to learn it, I've come to your grot. Now I beg and entreat, if you have such a plan, That you'll write it me down as plain as you can." Upon which the old hermit went to his pen,

And brought me this note when he came back again.

""Tis being, and doing, and having that make
All the pleasures and pains of which beings partake;
To be what God pleases,—to do a man's best,
And to have a good heart,—is the way to be blessed."

THE COUNTRY CLERGYMAN.

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

NEAR yonder copse, where once the garden smil'd, And still, where many a garden flow'r grows wild,— There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich-with forty pounds a year; Remote from towns, he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, his place; Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashion'd to the varying hour: Far other aims his heart had learnt to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,
He chid their wanderings, but reliev'd their pain;
The long-remember'd beggar was his guest,
Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;
The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,
Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;
The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,
Sat by his fire, and talk'd the night away;

Wept o'er his wounds, or tales of sorrow done,

Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.

I'leas'd with his guests, the good man learn'd to glow,
And quite forgot their vices in their woe;
Careless their merits or their faults to scan,
His pity gave ere charity began.

Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride; And e'en his failings lean'd to virtue's side; But, in his duty prompt at every call,

He watch'd and wept, he pray'd and felt for all:

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries
To tempt its new-fledg'd offspring to the skies,
He tried each art, reprov'd each dull delay,
Allur'd to brighter worlds, and led the way.

Beside the bed, where parting life was laid,
And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismay'd,
The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul: Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whisper'd praise.

At church, with meek and unaffected grace,
His looks adorn'd the venerable place;
Truth from his lips prevail'd with double sway;
And fools, who came to scoff, remain'd to pray.
The service past, around the pious man,
With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;
Ev'n children follow'd with endearing wile,

And pluck'd his gown to share the good man's smile:
His ready smile a parent's warmth express'd;

Their welfare pleas'd him, and their cares distress'd To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given; But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.

END OF VOL. II.