For I did not bring home the river and sky; The delicate shells lay on the shore; With the sun, and the sand, and the wild up roar. The lover watched his graceful maid, Nor knew her beauty's best attire Was woven still by the snow-white choir. Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage; A gentle wife, but fairy none. Then I said, "I covet truth; Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat I leave it behind with the games of youth." As I spoke, beneath my feet The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath, Running over the club-moss burs; I inhaled the violet's breath; Around me stood the oaks and firs; The rolling river, the morning bird; I yielded myself to the perfect whole. THE SOUL'S ERRAND. O, Soul, the body's guest, Upon a thankless errand; Fear not to touch the best; The truth shall be thy warrant. Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie. Say to the Court it glows And shines like rotten wood; Say to the Church it shows What's good, and does no good. If Church and Court reply, Then give them both the lie. Tell Potentates they live Acting by others' action; Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by affection. If Potentates reply, Give Potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition, That manage the Estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate. And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie. Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending; Who in their greatest cost Like nothing but commending. And if they make reply, Then tell them all they lie. Tell Zeal it wants devotion; Tell Love it is but lust; Tell Time it is but motion; Tell Flesh it is but dust. And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie. Tell Age it daily wasteth; Tell Honor how it alters; Tell Beauty how she blasteth; Tell Favor how it falters. And as they shall reply, Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles In tickle points of niceness; Tell Wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness. And when they do reply Straight give them both the lie. Tell Physic of her boldness; Tell Skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness; Tell Law it is contention. And as they do reply, So give them all the lie. Tell Fortune of her blindness; And if they will reply, Tell Arts they have no soundness, Tell Faith it's fled the city; So when thou hast, as I Deserves no less than stabbing, THE HEREAFTER. (From "An Essay on Man.") JOPE humbly then; with trembling pinions soar; Wait the great teacher, Death; and God adore. What future bliss, he gives not thee to know, heaven; Some safer world in depth of wood embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold. To be, contents his natural desire, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire, LITTLE AT FIRST, BUT GREAT A AT LAST. TRAVELER through a dusty road Strewed acorns on the lea, And one took root, and sprouted up, And grew into a tree. Love sought its shade at evening time, And Age was pleased, at heat of noon, A little spring had lost its way He thought not of the deed he did, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'Twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, Yet strong in being true; It shone upon a genial mind, And lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, A monitory flame! The thought was small, its issue great; It shed its radiance far adown, A nameless man, amid the crowd A whisper, on the tumult thrown, It raised a brother from the dust, O germ! O fount! O word of love! CHARLES MACKAY. HE Greek wordeòquia, a finely tempered nature, gives exactly the notion of perfection as culture brings us to conceive it; a harmonious perfection, a perfection in which the characters of beauty and intelligence are both present, which unites "the two noblest of things," as Swift, who of one of the two, at any rate, had himself all too little, most happily calls them in his "Battle of the Books," "the two noblest of things, sweetness and light." The supurs, I say, is the man who tends towards sweetness and light; the àquýs, on the other hand, is our Philistine. The immense spiritual significance of the Greeks is due to their having been inspired with this central and happy idea of the essential character of human perfection; and Mr. Bright's misconception of culture, as a smattering of Greek and Latin, comes itself, after all, from this wonderful significance of the Greeks having affected the very machinery of our education, and is in itself a kind of homage to it. MATTHEW ARNOLD. SOMEBODY. SOMEBODY thinks the world all wrong And never has a word in its praise; Somebody sings the whole day long, Likes the world and all its ways; Somebody says it's a queer old place, Where none of the people do as they should; Then somebody thinks it full of grace And wouldn't change the folks if he could. Somebody calls it cruel and cold, Full of sin and sorrow and pain, Where life is but a search for gold, And souls are lost in selfish gain. Somebody merrily laughs-and cries, "Hurrah for such a dear old earth! Success shall crown the man who tries To make his mark by honest worth." Somebody groans and shakes his head, Calls his lot a wretched one; Somebody wishes that he were dead, 'Cause somebody else has all the fun. But still I fancy you're sure to find, Tho' good or evil, or pain or care, One certain fact-so make up your mind That-Somebody always gets his share. ANONYMOUS. EVERY DAY. OH, trifling task so often done, Yet ever to be done anew; Oh, cares which come with every sun, The restless sense of wasted power, The boulder in the torrent's course By tide and tempest lashed in vain, Obeys the wave-whirled pebble's force, And yields its substance grain by grain; So crumble strongest lives away Beneath the wear of every day. Who finds the lion in his lair, Who tracks the tiger for his life, May wound them ere they are aware, Or conquer them in desperate strife, Yet powerless he to scathe or slay The vexing gnats of every day. The steady strain that never stops, Will groove the adamantine rock; We rise to meet a heavy blow- The drop-by-drop of little ills; The heart which boldly faces death The needle-points of fret and cares; The stoutest spirits they dismayThe tiny stings of every day. And even saints of holy fames, The molten crown of martyrdom, Ah, more than martyr's aureole, And more than hero's heart of fire, We need the humble strength of soul Which daily toils and ills require— Sweet Patience! grant us, if you may, An added grace for every day! ANONYMOUS. WHO BIDES HIS TIME. HO bides his time, day by day Faces defeat, full patiently, And lifts a mirthful roundelay, However poor his fortunes beHe will not fail in any qualm Of poverty-the paltry dime, It will grow golden in his palm, Who bides his time. Who bides his time, he tastes the sweet |