Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,One raylet of his glorious gift of light,Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is downSuch space that men may find a path thereby.A priest questioned him:“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,From whereso’er they fall;Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,Some by the prison wall.“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,So doth the dyer’s shed!Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’‘They are alike!’ one said.“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;As shadows fall, they fall!Rest under, if ye must, but question notWhich is the best of all.“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragranceOf fruit and bloom o’erhead;And some are evil, bearing fruitless branchesWhence poisonous air is spread.“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,Right shelter from life’s heat;Lo! these do well who toil for wife and childThreading the burning street.“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwellBlameless and just to all;Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,Albeit the store be small!“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to beMerciful, patient, and mild;To hear the law and keep it, leading daysInnocent, undefiled.“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its likeEnds not, nor hate by hate;By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,By knowledge life’s dark state.“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wingsWhich cleave the blue, cool skies!What shadow needeth that proud Lord of AirTo shield his fearless eyes?“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinionsHeart free and great as his!The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wiseGreater or lesser bliss!’”
Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,One raylet of his glorious gift of light,Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is downSuch space that men may find a path thereby.A priest questioned him:“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,From whereso’er they fall;Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,Some by the prison wall.“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,So doth the dyer’s shed!Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’‘They are alike!’ one said.“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;As shadows fall, they fall!Rest under, if ye must, but question notWhich is the best of all.“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragranceOf fruit and bloom o’erhead;And some are evil, bearing fruitless branchesWhence poisonous air is spread.“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,Right shelter from life’s heat;Lo! these do well who toil for wife and childThreading the burning street.“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwellBlameless and just to all;Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,Albeit the store be small!“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to beMerciful, patient, and mild;To hear the law and keep it, leading daysInnocent, undefiled.“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its likeEnds not, nor hate by hate;By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,By knowledge life’s dark state.“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wingsWhich cleave the blue, cool skies!What shadow needeth that proud Lord of AirTo shield his fearless eyes?“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinionsHeart free and great as his!The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wiseGreater or lesser bliss!’”
Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,One raylet of his glorious gift of light,Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is downSuch space that men may find a path thereby.A priest questioned him:“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:
Herewith a broken beam of Buddha’s lore,
One raylet of his glorious gift of light,
Rose-gleam which lingers when the sun is down
Such space that men may find a path thereby.
A priest questioned him:
“‘Which is Life’s chief good, Master?’ And he spake:
“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,From whereso’er they fall;Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,Some by the prison wall.
“‘Shadows are good, when the high sun is flaming,
From whereso’er they fall;
Some take their rest beneath the holy temple,
Some by the prison wall.
“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,So doth the dyer’s shed!Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’‘They are alike!’ one said.
“‘The king’s gilt palace roof shuts off the sunlight,
So doth the dyer’s shed!
Which is the chiefest shade of all the shadows?’
‘They are alike!’ one said.
“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;As shadows fall, they fall!Rest under, if ye must, but question notWhich is the best of all.
“‘So is it,’ quoth he, ‘with all shows or living;
As shadows fall, they fall!
Rest under, if ye must, but question not
Which is the best of all.
“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragranceOf fruit and bloom o’erhead;And some are evil, bearing fruitless branchesWhence poisonous air is spread.
“‘Yet in the forest some trees wave with fragrance
Of fruit and bloom o’erhead;
And some are evil, bearing fruitless branches
Whence poisonous air is spread.
“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,Right shelter from life’s heat;Lo! these do well who toil for wife and childThreading the burning street.
“‘Therefore, though all be shows, seek, if ye must,
Right shelter from life’s heat;
Lo! these do well who toil for wife and child
Threading the burning street.
“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwellBlameless and just to all;Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,Albeit the store be small!
“‘Good is it helping kindred! good to dwell
Blameless and just to all;
Good to give alms, with good-will in the heart,
Albeit the store be small!
“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to beMerciful, patient, and mild;To hear the law and keep it, leading daysInnocent, undefiled.
“‘Good to speak sweet and gentle words, to be
Merciful, patient, and mild;
To hear the law and keep it, leading days
Innocent, undefiled.
“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its likeEnds not, nor hate by hate;By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,By knowledge life’s dark state.
“‘These the chief goods—for evil by its like
Ends not, nor hate by hate;
By love hate ceaseth, by well-doing ill,
By knowledge life’s dark state.
“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wingsWhich cleave the blue, cool skies!What shadow needeth that proud Lord of AirTo shield his fearless eyes?
“‘Look! yonder soars an eagle! mark those wings
Which cleave the blue, cool skies!
What shadow needeth that proud Lord of Air
To shield his fearless eyes?
“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinionsHeart free and great as his!The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wiseGreater or lesser bliss!’”
“‘Rise from this life! lift upon new-spread pinions
Heart free and great as his!
The eagle seeks no shadow, nor the wise
Greater or lesser bliss!’”
We are unwilling walkers. We are not innocent and simple-hearted enough to enjoy a walk. We have fallen from that state of grace which capacity to enjoy a walk implies. It cannot be said that as a people we are so positively sad or morose as that we are vacant of that sportiveness of animal spirits that characterized our ancestors, and that springs from full and harmonious life,—a sound heart in accord with a sound body. A man must invest himself near at hand, and in common things, and be content with a steady and moderate return, if he would know the blessedness of a cheerful heart, and the sweetness of a walk over the round earth. This is a lesson the American has yet to learn,—capability of amusement on a low key.—John Burroughs.
To fill the youthful mind with lofty and noble ideas, to stock the memory with the richest vocabulary, and to acquire a wide command of our grand English language, we have nothing better, except the Bible, than the plays of Shakespeare.
Extracts from Shakespeare once thoroughly committed to memory are never forgotten. Many of the world’s great orators and statesmen were wont to commit and recite passages from Shakespeare. Edmund Burke made Shakespeare his daily study, while Erskine, it is said, could have held conversation on every subject in the phrases of the great dramatist. Rufus Choate was familiar with every line of Shakespeare. Daniel Webster never tired of repeating passages from the same author. The genial Dr. Holmes tells us that Wendell Phillips, Motley the historian, and himself, when boys, used to declaim Antony’s oration on holiday afternoons over the prostrate form of some younger playmate.
Adeline D. T. Whitney.
Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.Maybe they think that for them and their siresStretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;And perhaps the thought that the world inspiresDidplan for the birds among other things.Little birds sit on the slender lines,And the news of the world runs under their feet:How value rises and now declines,How kings with their armies in battle meet;And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.Little things light on the lines of our lives—Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;And we think that for these the Lord contrives,Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,And his word runs underneath all the way.Is life only wires and lightning, then,Apart from that which about it clings?Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of menOnly sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—Holding a moment and gone again?Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!
Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.Maybe they think that for them and their siresStretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;And perhaps the thought that the world inspiresDidplan for the birds among other things.Little birds sit on the slender lines,And the news of the world runs under their feet:How value rises and now declines,How kings with their armies in battle meet;And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.Little things light on the lines of our lives—Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;And we think that for these the Lord contrives,Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,And his word runs underneath all the way.Is life only wires and lightning, then,Apart from that which about it clings?Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of menOnly sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—Holding a moment and gone again?Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!
Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.Maybe they think that for them and their siresStretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;And perhaps the thought that the world inspiresDidplan for the birds among other things.
Little birds sit on the telegraph wires,
And chitter and flitter and fold their wings.
Maybe they think that for them and their sires
Stretched always on purpose, those wonderful strings;
And perhaps the thought that the world inspires
Didplan for the birds among other things.
Little birds sit on the slender lines,And the news of the world runs under their feet:How value rises and now declines,How kings with their armies in battle meet;And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.
Little birds sit on the slender lines,
And the news of the world runs under their feet:
How value rises and now declines,
How kings with their armies in battle meet;
And all the while, ’mid the soundless signs,
They chirp their small gossipings, foolish and sweet.
Little things light on the lines of our lives—Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;And we think that for these the Lord contrives,Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,And his word runs underneath all the way.
Little things light on the lines of our lives—
Hopes and joys and acts of to-day;
And we think that for these the Lord contrives,
Nor catch what the hidden lightnings say;
Yet from end to end his meaning arrives,
And his word runs underneath all the way.
Is life only wires and lightning, then,Apart from that which about it clings?Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of menOnly sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—Holding a moment and gone again?Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!
Is life only wires and lightning, then,
Apart from that which about it clings?
Are the thoughts and the works and the prayers of men
Only sparrows that light on God’s telegraph strings—
Holding a moment and gone again?
Nay: he planned for the birds with the larger things!
But, above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, brute-mindedness—attack it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and rest not while thou livest and it lives; but smite, smite in the name of God! The highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so command thee: still audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even He, with his unspoken voice, is fuller than any Sinai thunders, or syllabled speech of whirlwinds; for thesilenceof deep eternities, of worlds beyond the morning stars, does it not speak to thee? The unborn ages; the old graves, with their long moldering dust, the very tears that wetted it, now all dry—do not these speak to thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death-kingdoms, the stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all time, proclaim it to thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever man should, shalt work while it is called to-day; for the night cometh, wherein no man can work.—Thomas Carlyle.
(July 16, 1779.)
Elaine Goodale.
The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;These murmur of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,—He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—These whisper of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”These tell us of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”We’ll believe it of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!
The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;These murmur of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,—He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—These whisper of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”These tell us of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”We’ll believe it of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!
The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;These murmur of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,—He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!
The wonder of midnight, now pregnant with wars,
Skies mellow and fruitful, all trembling with stars,
The ripe, yellow planet, poised low in the west,
The smooth-flowing river, with stars on its breast;
These murmur of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,—
He has life-blood to lose, he has glory to gain!
The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—These whisper of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.
The low-lying marshes, where, silent and stern,
Twelve hundred are creeping through bog-grass and fern,
With fireflies for lanterns; while, black-throated still,
The cannon are cold in the fort on the hill,—
These whisper of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
Every sense up in arms, every nerve on the strain.
The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”These tell us of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!
The noiseless approach, and the desperate close;
The flash of the steel, and the blood as it flows;
The hero, once wounded, who cries,—“I shall win!
Let me die in the fort! Men, carry me in!”
These tell us of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
With nerves hard as iron, despising the pain!
The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”We’ll believe it of Wayne,Mad Anthony Wayne,The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!
The red flag of morning, displayed in the skies,
Brings a stern look of joy to the conqueror’s eyes,—
Those eyes that flashed full on his chief (so they tell),—
“What! storm Stony Point? You may bid me storm hell!”
We’ll believe it of Wayne,
Mad Anthony Wayne,
The bravest of foes, and the peer of his slain!
Ernest W. Shurtleff.
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.I never heard a songster’s lay that toldOf aught but simple joy and grateful praise.The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—His song is for the flowers he chirps among.The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,The stars that light unmeasured depths of spaceLike distant suns that flash reflected charms,When on the night Jehovah turns his face—All these in humbleness their glory wear,Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?Who wins the passing praise the cold world singsNot always earns the praise of Heaven too.Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!To know that what we hold is not our own!The lily is as modest as the weed,The mountain humble as the broken stone.Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,That death should come to teach us we are dust!
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.I never heard a songster’s lay that toldOf aught but simple joy and grateful praise.The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—His song is for the flowers he chirps among.The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,The stars that light unmeasured depths of spaceLike distant suns that flash reflected charms,When on the night Jehovah turns his face—All these in humbleness their glory wear,Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?Who wins the passing praise the cold world singsNot always earns the praise of Heaven too.Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!To know that what we hold is not our own!The lily is as modest as the weed,The mountain humble as the broken stone.Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,That death should come to teach us we are dust!
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.
Sweet are the roses in the pasture lane,
Like flakes of sunset dropped from some rich cloud—
Oh, sweet, indeed, but not with sweetness vain;
Nor is the pasture of their presence proud.
Not for themselves they blossom, bud and nod—
They spring to breathe to man the peace of God.
I never heard a songster’s lay that toldOf aught but simple joy and grateful praise.The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—His song is for the flowers he chirps among.
I never heard a songster’s lay that told
Of aught but simple joy and grateful praise.
The oriole, with throat aflame with gold,
Dreams not he is a charm to mortal gaze;
No bird to laud himself hath ever sung—
His song is for the flowers he chirps among.
The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,The stars that light unmeasured depths of spaceLike distant suns that flash reflected charms,When on the night Jehovah turns his face—All these in humbleness their glory wear,Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.
The sun that fills the skies with summer calms,
The stars that light unmeasured depths of space
Like distant suns that flash reflected charms,
When on the night Jehovah turns his face—
All these in humbleness their glory wear,
Grateful, not proud, because Heaven made them fair.
O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?Who wins the passing praise the cold world singsNot always earns the praise of Heaven too.Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.
O vaunting man, go ponder on these things!
Think—what is glory in thy Makers view?
Who wins the passing praise the cold world sings
Not always earns the praise of Heaven too.
Thou mayst through life thy name with gods enroll,
Yet bear rebuke of angels in thy soul.
Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!To know that what we hold is not our own!The lily is as modest as the weed,The mountain humble as the broken stone.Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,That death should come to teach us we are dust!
Oh, to be simple in the lives we lead!
To know that what we hold is not our own!
The lily is as modest as the weed,
The mountain humble as the broken stone.
Since man is proud, how wise it is, how just,
That death should come to teach us we are dust!
Tired? Well, what of that?Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease,Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze?Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day!Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.Lonely? And what of that?Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to allTo feel a heart responsive rise and fall,To blend another life into its own;Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!Dark? Well, and what of that?Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet.Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight;Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.Hard? Well, what of that?Didst fancy life one summer holiday,With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.
Tired? Well, what of that?Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease,Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze?Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day!Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.Lonely? And what of that?Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to allTo feel a heart responsive rise and fall,To blend another life into its own;Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!Dark? Well, and what of that?Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet.Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight;Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.Hard? Well, what of that?Didst fancy life one summer holiday,With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.
Tired? Well, what of that?Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease,Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze?Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day!Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.
Tired? Well, what of that?
Didst fancy life was spent on beds of ease,
Fluttering the rose-leaves scattered by the breeze?
Come, rouse thee! work while it is called day!
Coward, arise! go forth upon thy way.
Lonely? And what of that?Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to allTo feel a heart responsive rise and fall,To blend another life into its own;Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!
Lonely? And what of that?
Some must be lonely; ’tis not given to all
To feel a heart responsive rise and fall,
To blend another life into its own;
Work may be done in loneliness. Work on!
Dark? Well, and what of that?Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet.Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight;Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.
Dark? Well, and what of that?
Didst fondly dream the sun would never set?
Dost fear to lose thy way? Take courage yet.
Learn thou to walk by faith, and not by sight;
Thy steps will guided be, and guided right.
Hard? Well, what of that?Didst fancy life one summer holiday,With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.
Hard? Well, what of that?
Didst fancy life one summer holiday,
With lessons none to learn, and naught but play?
Go, get thee to thy task! Conquer or die!
It must be learned; learn it, then, patiently.
Knowledge has in our time triumphed, and is still triumphing, over prejudice and over bigotry. The civilized and Christian world is fast learning the great lesson that difference of nation does not imply necessary hostility, and that all contact need not be war. The whole world is becoming a common field for intellect to act in. Energy of mind, genius, power, wheresoever it exists, may speak out in any tongue, and the world will hear it.—Daniel Webster.
Things ain’t now as they used to beA hundred years ago,When schools were kept in private roomsAbove stairs or below;When sturdy boys and rosy girlsRomped through the drifted snow,And spelled their duty and their “abs,”A hundred years ago.Those old school-rooms were dark and coldWhen winter’s sun ran low;But darker was the master’s frown,A hundred years ago;And high hung up the birchen rod,That all the school might see,Which taught the boys obedienceAs well as Rule of Three.Though ’twas but little that they learned,A hundred years ago,Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,—’Twas well whipped in, you know.But now the times are greatly changed,The rod has had its day,The boys are won by gentle words,And girls by love obey.The school-house now a palace is,And scholars, kings and queens;They master Algebra and GreekBefore they reach their teens.Where once was crying, music sweetHer soothing influence sheds;Ferules are used for beating time,And not for beating heads.Yes, learning was a ragged boy,A hundred years ago;With six weeks schooling in a year,What could the urchin do?But now he is a full-grown man,And boasts attainments rare;He’s got his silver slippers on,And running everywhere.
Things ain’t now as they used to beA hundred years ago,When schools were kept in private roomsAbove stairs or below;When sturdy boys and rosy girlsRomped through the drifted snow,And spelled their duty and their “abs,”A hundred years ago.Those old school-rooms were dark and coldWhen winter’s sun ran low;But darker was the master’s frown,A hundred years ago;And high hung up the birchen rod,That all the school might see,Which taught the boys obedienceAs well as Rule of Three.Though ’twas but little that they learned,A hundred years ago,Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,—’Twas well whipped in, you know.But now the times are greatly changed,The rod has had its day,The boys are won by gentle words,And girls by love obey.The school-house now a palace is,And scholars, kings and queens;They master Algebra and GreekBefore they reach their teens.Where once was crying, music sweetHer soothing influence sheds;Ferules are used for beating time,And not for beating heads.Yes, learning was a ragged boy,A hundred years ago;With six weeks schooling in a year,What could the urchin do?But now he is a full-grown man,And boasts attainments rare;He’s got his silver slippers on,And running everywhere.
Things ain’t now as they used to beA hundred years ago,When schools were kept in private roomsAbove stairs or below;When sturdy boys and rosy girlsRomped through the drifted snow,And spelled their duty and their “abs,”A hundred years ago.
Things ain’t now as they used to be
A hundred years ago,
When schools were kept in private rooms
Above stairs or below;
When sturdy boys and rosy girls
Romped through the drifted snow,
And spelled their duty and their “abs,”
A hundred years ago.
Those old school-rooms were dark and coldWhen winter’s sun ran low;But darker was the master’s frown,A hundred years ago;And high hung up the birchen rod,That all the school might see,Which taught the boys obedienceAs well as Rule of Three.
Those old school-rooms were dark and cold
When winter’s sun ran low;
But darker was the master’s frown,
A hundred years ago;
And high hung up the birchen rod,
That all the school might see,
Which taught the boys obedience
As well as Rule of Three.
Though ’twas but little that they learned,A hundred years ago,Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,—’Twas well whipped in, you know.But now the times are greatly changed,The rod has had its day,The boys are won by gentle words,And girls by love obey.
Though ’twas but little that they learned,
A hundred years ago,
Yet what they got they ne’er let slip,—
’Twas well whipped in, you know.
But now the times are greatly changed,
The rod has had its day,
The boys are won by gentle words,
And girls by love obey.
The school-house now a palace is,And scholars, kings and queens;They master Algebra and GreekBefore they reach their teens.Where once was crying, music sweetHer soothing influence sheds;Ferules are used for beating time,And not for beating heads.
The school-house now a palace is,
And scholars, kings and queens;
They master Algebra and Greek
Before they reach their teens.
Where once was crying, music sweet
Her soothing influence sheds;
Ferules are used for beating time,
And not for beating heads.
Yes, learning was a ragged boy,A hundred years ago;With six weeks schooling in a year,What could the urchin do?But now he is a full-grown man,And boasts attainments rare;He’s got his silver slippers on,And running everywhere.
Yes, learning was a ragged boy,
A hundred years ago;
With six weeks schooling in a year,
What could the urchin do?
But now he is a full-grown man,
And boasts attainments rare;
He’s got his silver slippers on,
And running everywhere.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
There was a kingdom known as the Mind,A kingdom vast, as fair,And the brave King Brain had the right to reignIn royal splendor there.Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful landWhich unto this king was given;It was filled with everything good and grand,And it reached from earth to heaven.But a savage monster came one day,From over a distant border;He made war on the king and usurped his sway,And set everything in disorder.He mounted the throne, which he made his own,And the kingdom was sunk in grief,There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came—Ill Temper, the barbarous chief.He threw down the castles of Love and Peace,He burned up the altars of prayers;He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain,And planted thistles and tares.He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and droveQueen Wisdom away in fright,And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doomShadowed that land with night.Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushedTo the neighboring kingdom Heart,And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed,And patience was made to depart.And he even went on to the isthmus Soul,That unites the Mind with God,And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowersWith a reckless heel he trod.Oh! to you is given this beautiful landWhere the lordly Brain has sway—But the border ruffian is near at hand—And be on your guard, I pray.Beware ofIll Temper, the barbarous chief,He is cruel as Vice or Sin;He will certainly bring your kingdom grief,If once you let him in.
There was a kingdom known as the Mind,A kingdom vast, as fair,And the brave King Brain had the right to reignIn royal splendor there.Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful landWhich unto this king was given;It was filled with everything good and grand,And it reached from earth to heaven.But a savage monster came one day,From over a distant border;He made war on the king and usurped his sway,And set everything in disorder.He mounted the throne, which he made his own,And the kingdom was sunk in grief,There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came—Ill Temper, the barbarous chief.He threw down the castles of Love and Peace,He burned up the altars of prayers;He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain,And planted thistles and tares.He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and droveQueen Wisdom away in fright,And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doomShadowed that land with night.Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushedTo the neighboring kingdom Heart,And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed,And patience was made to depart.And he even went on to the isthmus Soul,That unites the Mind with God,And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowersWith a reckless heel he trod.Oh! to you is given this beautiful landWhere the lordly Brain has sway—But the border ruffian is near at hand—And be on your guard, I pray.Beware ofIll Temper, the barbarous chief,He is cruel as Vice or Sin;He will certainly bring your kingdom grief,If once you let him in.
There was a kingdom known as the Mind,A kingdom vast, as fair,And the brave King Brain had the right to reignIn royal splendor there.Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful landWhich unto this king was given;It was filled with everything good and grand,And it reached from earth to heaven.
There was a kingdom known as the Mind,
A kingdom vast, as fair,
And the brave King Brain had the right to reign
In royal splendor there.
Oh! that was a beautiful, beautiful land
Which unto this king was given;
It was filled with everything good and grand,
And it reached from earth to heaven.
But a savage monster came one day,From over a distant border;He made war on the king and usurped his sway,And set everything in disorder.He mounted the throne, which he made his own,And the kingdom was sunk in grief,There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came—Ill Temper, the barbarous chief.
But a savage monster came one day,
From over a distant border;
He made war on the king and usurped his sway,
And set everything in disorder.
He mounted the throne, which he made his own,
And the kingdom was sunk in grief,
There was sorrow and shame from the hour he came—
Ill Temper, the barbarous chief.
He threw down the castles of Love and Peace,He burned up the altars of prayers;He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain,And planted thistles and tares.He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and droveQueen Wisdom away in fright,And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doomShadowed that land with night.
He threw down the castles of Love and Peace,
He burned up the altars of prayers;
He trod down the grain that was sowed by Brain,
And planted thistles and tares.
He wasted the storehouse of knowledge, and drove
Queen Wisdom away in fright,
And a terrible gloom like the cloud of doom
Shadowed that land with night.
Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushedTo the neighboring kingdom Heart,And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed,And patience was made to depart.And he even went on to the isthmus Soul,That unites the Mind with God,And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowersWith a reckless heel he trod.
Then, bent on more havoc, away he rushed
To the neighboring kingdom Heart,
And the blossoms of kindness and hope he crushed,
And patience was made to depart.
And he even went on to the isthmus Soul,
That unites the Mind with God,
And its beautiful bowers and fragrant flowers
With a reckless heel he trod.
Oh! to you is given this beautiful landWhere the lordly Brain has sway—But the border ruffian is near at hand—And be on your guard, I pray.Beware ofIll Temper, the barbarous chief,He is cruel as Vice or Sin;He will certainly bring your kingdom grief,If once you let him in.
Oh! to you is given this beautiful land
Where the lordly Brain has sway—
But the border ruffian is near at hand—
And be on your guard, I pray.
Beware ofIll Temper, the barbarous chief,
He is cruel as Vice or Sin;
He will certainly bring your kingdom grief,
If once you let him in.
Horace Mann.
At first the mind cannot project itself outward, if we may so speak, even so far as the eye can reach. A child may see with the eye the outlines of a distant mountain long before his mind can, as it were, leap over the intervening space. But soon the mind attains a power of flight compared with which the space traveled by the keenest eye, aided by the best telescope, is nothing. The eye, indeed, can see the remote star, whose light, traveling since its creation at the rate of two hundred thousand miles a second, has but just reached the earth; but all this is only a hand-breadth compared with the depths in the abysses of space into which the adventurous mind plunges itself.
Margaret J. Preston.
From his home in an eastern bungalow,In sight of the everlasting snowOf the grand Himalayas, row on row,Thus wrote my friend:“I had traveled farFrom the Afghan towers of Candahar,Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;“And once, when the daily march was o’er,As tired I sat in my tented door,Hope failed me, as never it failed before.“In swarming city, at wayside fane,By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain,I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears;The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fearsHave gloomed their worship this thousand years.“‘For Christ and His truth I stand aloneIn the midst of millions; a sand-grain blownAgainst yon temple of ancient stone.“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsookMy soul, as I turned on the pile to look;Then rising, my saddened way I took“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air;I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled wereThe walls I had deemed so firm and fair!“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,Most plainly rent by its roots alone,A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;“Whose gradual stress would still expandThe crevice, and topple upon the sandThe temple, while o’er its work would stand“The tree in its living verdure!—WhoCould compass the thought?—The bird that flewHitherward, dropping a seed that grew,“Did more to shiver this ancient wallThan earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or allThe centuries, in their lapse and fall!“Then I knelt by the riven granite there,And my soul shook off its weight of care,As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:“‘The living seeds I have dropped remainIn the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain,Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”
From his home in an eastern bungalow,In sight of the everlasting snowOf the grand Himalayas, row on row,Thus wrote my friend:“I had traveled farFrom the Afghan towers of Candahar,Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;“And once, when the daily march was o’er,As tired I sat in my tented door,Hope failed me, as never it failed before.“In swarming city, at wayside fane,By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain,I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears;The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fearsHave gloomed their worship this thousand years.“‘For Christ and His truth I stand aloneIn the midst of millions; a sand-grain blownAgainst yon temple of ancient stone.“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsookMy soul, as I turned on the pile to look;Then rising, my saddened way I took“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air;I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled wereThe walls I had deemed so firm and fair!“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,Most plainly rent by its roots alone,A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;“Whose gradual stress would still expandThe crevice, and topple upon the sandThe temple, while o’er its work would stand“The tree in its living verdure!—WhoCould compass the thought?—The bird that flewHitherward, dropping a seed that grew,“Did more to shiver this ancient wallThan earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or allThe centuries, in their lapse and fall!“Then I knelt by the riven granite there,And my soul shook off its weight of care,As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:“‘The living seeds I have dropped remainIn the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain,Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”
From his home in an eastern bungalow,In sight of the everlasting snowOf the grand Himalayas, row on row,Thus wrote my friend:
From his home in an eastern bungalow,
In sight of the everlasting snow
Of the grand Himalayas, row on row,
Thus wrote my friend:
“I had traveled farFrom the Afghan towers of Candahar,Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
“I had traveled far
From the Afghan towers of Candahar,
Through the sand-white plains of Sinde-Sagar;
“And once, when the daily march was o’er,As tired I sat in my tented door,Hope failed me, as never it failed before.
“And once, when the daily march was o’er,
As tired I sat in my tented door,
Hope failed me, as never it failed before.
“In swarming city, at wayside fane,By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain,I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.
“In swarming city, at wayside fane,
By the Indus’ bank, on the scorching plain,
I had taught,—and my teaching all seemed vain.
“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears;The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fearsHave gloomed their worship this thousand years.
“‘No glimmer of light [I sighed] appears;
The Moslem’s fate and the Buddhist’s fears
Have gloomed their worship this thousand years.
“‘For Christ and His truth I stand aloneIn the midst of millions; a sand-grain blownAgainst yon temple of ancient stone.
“‘For Christ and His truth I stand alone
In the midst of millions; a sand-grain blown
Against yon temple of ancient stone.
“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsookMy soul, as I turned on the pile to look;Then rising, my saddened way I took
“‘As soon may level it!’ Faith forsook
My soul, as I turned on the pile to look;
Then rising, my saddened way I took
“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air;I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled wereThe walls I had deemed so firm and fair!
“To its lofty roof, for the cooler air;
I gazed, and marveled;—how crumbled were
The walls I had deemed so firm and fair!
“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,Most plainly rent by its roots alone,A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;
“For, wedged in a rift of the massive stone,
Most plainly rent by its roots alone,
A beautiful peepul-tree had grown;
“Whose gradual stress would still expandThe crevice, and topple upon the sandThe temple, while o’er its work would stand
“Whose gradual stress would still expand
The crevice, and topple upon the sand
The temple, while o’er its work would stand
“The tree in its living verdure!—WhoCould compass the thought?—The bird that flewHitherward, dropping a seed that grew,
“The tree in its living verdure!—Who
Could compass the thought?—The bird that flew
Hitherward, dropping a seed that grew,
“Did more to shiver this ancient wallThan earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or allThe centuries, in their lapse and fall!
“Did more to shiver this ancient wall
Than earthquake,—war,—simoon,—or all
The centuries, in their lapse and fall!
“Then I knelt by the riven granite there,And my soul shook off its weight of care,As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:
“Then I knelt by the riven granite there,
And my soul shook off its weight of care,
As my voice rose clear on the tropic air:
“‘The living seeds I have dropped remainIn the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain,Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”
“‘The living seeds I have dropped remain
In the cleft; Lord, quicken with dew and rain,
Then temple and mosque shall be rent in twain!’”
William Wirt.
I want to tell you a secret. The way to make yourself pleasing to others, is to show that you care for them. The world is like the miller at Mansfield, “who cared for nobody, no, not he, because nobody cared for him.” And the whole world will serve you so if you give them the same cause. Let every one, therefore, see that you do care for them, by showing them what Sterne so happily calls “the small, sweet courtesies,” in which there is no parade; whose voice is to still, to ease; and which manifest themselves by tender and affectionate looks and little kind acts of attention, giving others the preference in every little enjoyment at the table, in the field, walking, sitting, or standing.
Emily Huntington Miller.
Do you wonder what I am seeing,In the heart of the fire, aglowLike cliffs in a golden sunset,With a summer sea below?I see, away to the eastward,The line of a storm-beat coast,And I hear the tread of the hurrying wavesLike the tramp of the mailèd host.And up and down in the darkness,And over the frozen sand,I hear the men of the coast-guardPacing along the strand,Beaten by storm and tempest,And drenched by the pelting rain,From the shores of CarolinaTo the wind-swept bays of Maine.No matter what storms are raging,No matter how wild the night,The gleam of their swinging lanternsShines out with a friendly light.And many a shipwrecked sailorThanks God, with his gasping breath,For the sturdy arms of the surfmenThat drew him away from death.And so, when the wind is wailing,And the air grows dim with sleet,I think of the fearless watchersPacing along their beat.I think of a wreck, fast breakingIn the surf of a rocky shore,And the life-boat leaping onwardTo the stroke of the bending oar.I hear the shouts of the sailors,The boom of the frozen sail,And the creak of the icy halyardsStraining against the gale.“Courage!” the captain trumpets,“They are sending help from land!”God bless the men of the coast-guard,And hold their lives in His hand!
Do you wonder what I am seeing,In the heart of the fire, aglowLike cliffs in a golden sunset,With a summer sea below?I see, away to the eastward,The line of a storm-beat coast,And I hear the tread of the hurrying wavesLike the tramp of the mailèd host.And up and down in the darkness,And over the frozen sand,I hear the men of the coast-guardPacing along the strand,Beaten by storm and tempest,And drenched by the pelting rain,From the shores of CarolinaTo the wind-swept bays of Maine.No matter what storms are raging,No matter how wild the night,The gleam of their swinging lanternsShines out with a friendly light.And many a shipwrecked sailorThanks God, with his gasping breath,For the sturdy arms of the surfmenThat drew him away from death.And so, when the wind is wailing,And the air grows dim with sleet,I think of the fearless watchersPacing along their beat.I think of a wreck, fast breakingIn the surf of a rocky shore,And the life-boat leaping onwardTo the stroke of the bending oar.I hear the shouts of the sailors,The boom of the frozen sail,And the creak of the icy halyardsStraining against the gale.“Courage!” the captain trumpets,“They are sending help from land!”God bless the men of the coast-guard,And hold their lives in His hand!
Do you wonder what I am seeing,In the heart of the fire, aglowLike cliffs in a golden sunset,With a summer sea below?I see, away to the eastward,The line of a storm-beat coast,And I hear the tread of the hurrying wavesLike the tramp of the mailèd host.
Do you wonder what I am seeing,
In the heart of the fire, aglow
Like cliffs in a golden sunset,
With a summer sea below?
I see, away to the eastward,
The line of a storm-beat coast,
And I hear the tread of the hurrying waves
Like the tramp of the mailèd host.
And up and down in the darkness,And over the frozen sand,I hear the men of the coast-guardPacing along the strand,Beaten by storm and tempest,And drenched by the pelting rain,From the shores of CarolinaTo the wind-swept bays of Maine.
And up and down in the darkness,
And over the frozen sand,
I hear the men of the coast-guard
Pacing along the strand,
Beaten by storm and tempest,
And drenched by the pelting rain,
From the shores of Carolina
To the wind-swept bays of Maine.
No matter what storms are raging,No matter how wild the night,The gleam of their swinging lanternsShines out with a friendly light.And many a shipwrecked sailorThanks God, with his gasping breath,For the sturdy arms of the surfmenThat drew him away from death.
No matter what storms are raging,
No matter how wild the night,
The gleam of their swinging lanterns
Shines out with a friendly light.
And many a shipwrecked sailor
Thanks God, with his gasping breath,
For the sturdy arms of the surfmen
That drew him away from death.
And so, when the wind is wailing,And the air grows dim with sleet,I think of the fearless watchersPacing along their beat.I think of a wreck, fast breakingIn the surf of a rocky shore,And the life-boat leaping onwardTo the stroke of the bending oar.
And so, when the wind is wailing,
And the air grows dim with sleet,
I think of the fearless watchers
Pacing along their beat.
I think of a wreck, fast breaking
In the surf of a rocky shore,
And the life-boat leaping onward
To the stroke of the bending oar.
I hear the shouts of the sailors,The boom of the frozen sail,And the creak of the icy halyardsStraining against the gale.“Courage!” the captain trumpets,“They are sending help from land!”God bless the men of the coast-guard,And hold their lives in His hand!
I hear the shouts of the sailors,
The boom of the frozen sail,
And the creak of the icy halyards
Straining against the gale.
“Courage!” the captain trumpets,
“They are sending help from land!”
God bless the men of the coast-guard,
And hold their lives in His hand!
’Tis said the Turk, when passing downAn Eastern street,If any scrap of paper chanceHis eyes to greet,Will never look away, like us,Unheedingly,Or pass the little fragment thusRegardless by,But stop to pick it up because,Oh, lovely thought!The name of God may thereuponPerchance be wrought.In every human soul remains,However dim,Some image of the Deity,Some trace of Him.And how can we, then, any scornAs foul and dark,That bear, though frail and lowly, stillThat holy mark?And since His impress is uponAll nature seen,How can we aught disdain as commonOr unclean?Interior.
’Tis said the Turk, when passing downAn Eastern street,If any scrap of paper chanceHis eyes to greet,Will never look away, like us,Unheedingly,Or pass the little fragment thusRegardless by,But stop to pick it up because,Oh, lovely thought!The name of God may thereuponPerchance be wrought.In every human soul remains,However dim,Some image of the Deity,Some trace of Him.And how can we, then, any scornAs foul and dark,That bear, though frail and lowly, stillThat holy mark?And since His impress is uponAll nature seen,How can we aught disdain as commonOr unclean?Interior.
’Tis said the Turk, when passing downAn Eastern street,If any scrap of paper chanceHis eyes to greet,
’Tis said the Turk, when passing down
An Eastern street,
If any scrap of paper chance
His eyes to greet,
Will never look away, like us,Unheedingly,Or pass the little fragment thusRegardless by,
Will never look away, like us,
Unheedingly,
Or pass the little fragment thus
Regardless by,
But stop to pick it up because,Oh, lovely thought!The name of God may thereuponPerchance be wrought.
But stop to pick it up because,
Oh, lovely thought!
The name of God may thereupon
Perchance be wrought.
In every human soul remains,However dim,Some image of the Deity,Some trace of Him.
In every human soul remains,
However dim,
Some image of the Deity,
Some trace of Him.
And how can we, then, any scornAs foul and dark,That bear, though frail and lowly, stillThat holy mark?
And how can we, then, any scorn
As foul and dark,
That bear, though frail and lowly, still
That holy mark?
And since His impress is uponAll nature seen,How can we aught disdain as commonOr unclean?
And since His impress is upon
All nature seen,
How can we aught disdain as common
Or unclean?
Interior.
Interior.
Ella Jewett.
They tell us in the land of song,Where stately tower and palace rise,Though marbles breathe and canvas glows,Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies,The peasant, without thought or care,Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare.We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he!How destitute of mind and heart!’Twere worth a fortuneonceto viewItalia’s treasured gems of art!”Behold the landscape at our feet!Was ever painting more complete?No need to search for noble souls,Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song;A hundred heroes in our midstHave learned to suffer and be strong,—Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known,Princes without a crown and throne.Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chideThe dwellers in far Italy,But rather draw the veil asideFrom our own eyes, that we may see,Lo! all that seemed but commonplace,Adorned with beauty and with grace!
They tell us in the land of song,Where stately tower and palace rise,Though marbles breathe and canvas glows,Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies,The peasant, without thought or care,Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare.We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he!How destitute of mind and heart!’Twere worth a fortuneonceto viewItalia’s treasured gems of art!”Behold the landscape at our feet!Was ever painting more complete?No need to search for noble souls,Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song;A hundred heroes in our midstHave learned to suffer and be strong,—Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known,Princes without a crown and throne.Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chideThe dwellers in far Italy,But rather draw the veil asideFrom our own eyes, that we may see,Lo! all that seemed but commonplace,Adorned with beauty and with grace!
They tell us in the land of song,Where stately tower and palace rise,Though marbles breathe and canvas glows,Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies,The peasant, without thought or care,Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare.
They tell us in the land of song,
Where stately tower and palace rise,
Though marbles breathe and canvas glows,
Though tall cathedrals kiss the skies,
The peasant, without thought or care,
Walks on, nor heeds the beauty rare.
We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he!How destitute of mind and heart!’Twere worth a fortuneonceto viewItalia’s treasured gems of art!”Behold the landscape at our feet!Was ever painting more complete?
We murmur, “Oh, how blind is he!
How destitute of mind and heart!
’Twere worth a fortuneonceto view
Italia’s treasured gems of art!”
Behold the landscape at our feet!
Was ever painting more complete?
No need to search for noble souls,Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song;A hundred heroes in our midstHave learned to suffer and be strong,—Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known,Princes without a crown and throne.
No need to search for noble souls,
Boccaccio’s tale, or Petrarch’s song;
A hundred heroes in our midst
Have learned to suffer and be strong,—
Martyrs whose names will ne’er be known,
Princes without a crown and throne.
Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chideThe dwellers in far Italy,But rather draw the veil asideFrom our own eyes, that we may see,Lo! all that seemed but commonplace,Adorned with beauty and with grace!
Ah, blind and dull! Let us not chide
The dwellers in far Italy,
But rather draw the veil aside
From our own eyes, that we may see,
Lo! all that seemed but commonplace,
Adorned with beauty and with grace!
Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day!The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay.It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supplyOf proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy;But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grownThat, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own.Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform,And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm.Sodownthe window-sashes go andupthestoves, untilWe starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill.Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tentWithin some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent;But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons doTo those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew.For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage,And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage.We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for moreThe surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore.Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries,And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes.But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raftLet in a little air, forthwith somebodyfeels a draught.And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can;Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man.Phrenological Journal.
Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day!The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay.It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supplyOf proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy;But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grownThat, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own.Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform,And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm.Sodownthe window-sashes go andupthestoves, untilWe starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill.Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tentWithin some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent;But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons doTo those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew.For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage,And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage.We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for moreThe surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore.Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries,And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes.But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raftLet in a little air, forthwith somebodyfeels a draught.And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can;Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man.Phrenological Journal.
Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day!The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay.It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supplyOf proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy;But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grownThat, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own.Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform,And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm.Sodownthe window-sashes go andupthestoves, untilWe starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill.Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tentWithin some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent;But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons doTo those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew.For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage,And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage.We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for moreThe surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore.Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries,And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes.But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raftLet in a little air, forthwith somebodyfeels a draught.And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can;Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man.
Alas! has winter come again? Oh, how we dread the day!
The sufferings we undergo the bravest might dismay.
It is not that we fear the cold: had we a good supply
Of proper nourishment, the blasts of Greenland we’d defy;
But these poor bodies where we dwell have so impatient grown
That, heedless of the common good, they’ve learned to slight their own.
Not thinking that with fuel we our office would perform,
And take in oxygen to keep the blood and all the body warm.
Sodownthe window-sashes go andupthestoves, until
We starving lungs must labor hard our duty to fulfill.
Perhaps our tabernacle moves to pitch its roving tent
Within some crowded hall or church—no doubt with good intent;
But little good the sweetest songs or best of sermons do
To those who vainly strive to keep awake within their pew.
For in that place of peace a deadly conflict we must wage,
And friends sit calmly while their lungs in fiercest war engage.
We struggle for a little air, while clamoring for more
The surging flood each moment rolls like waves upon the shore.
Clogged by impurities, in vain to us for help it cries,
And then the brain and nerves grow dull, and dim the drooping eyes.
But should a sufferer chance to rise and from the topmost raft
Let in a little air, forthwith somebodyfeels a draught.
And so we’re forced to get along the very best we can;
Nor do the good that we might do for blundering, headstrong man.
Phrenological Journal.
Phrenological Journal.
To read the English language well, to write with dispatch a neat, legible hand, and be master of the first rules of arithmetic, so as to dispose of at once, with accuracy, every question of figures which comes up in practice—I call this a good education. And if you add the ability to write pure grammatical English, I regard it as an excellent education. These are the tools. You can do much with them, but you are helpless without them. They are the foundation; and unless you begin with these, all your flashy attainments, a little geology, and all other ologies and osophies are ostentatious rubbish.—Edward Everett.
High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and farTo the westward hills and the eastward sea,I shift my light like a twinkling star,With ever a star’s sweet constancy.They wait for me when the night comes down,And the slow sun falls in his death divine,Then braving the black night’s gathering frown,With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine!There is war at my feet where the black rocks break,The thunderous snows of the rising sea;There is peace above when the stars are awake,Keeping their night-long watch with me.I care not a jot for the roar of the surge,The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine!As over its breadth to the furthest verge,Unwavering and untired—I shine!First on my brow comes the pearly light,Dimming my lamp in the new-born day,One long, last look to left and right,And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-wayGrows bright with the smile and blush of the sky,All incandescent and opaline.I rest—but the loveliest day will die—Again in its last wan shadows—I shine!When the night is black, and the wind is loud,And danger is hidden, and peril abroad,The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud;His eye is on me, and his hope in God!Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eyeMeets his, and he hauls his groping line.“A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry;He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine!While standing alone in the summer sunSometimes I have visions and dreams of my own,Of long-life voyages just begun,And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown;And I would that men and women would markThe duty done by this lamp of mine;For many a life is lost in the dark,And few on earth are the lights that shine!Good Words.
High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and farTo the westward hills and the eastward sea,I shift my light like a twinkling star,With ever a star’s sweet constancy.They wait for me when the night comes down,And the slow sun falls in his death divine,Then braving the black night’s gathering frown,With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine!There is war at my feet where the black rocks break,The thunderous snows of the rising sea;There is peace above when the stars are awake,Keeping their night-long watch with me.I care not a jot for the roar of the surge,The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine!As over its breadth to the furthest verge,Unwavering and untired—I shine!First on my brow comes the pearly light,Dimming my lamp in the new-born day,One long, last look to left and right,And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-wayGrows bright with the smile and blush of the sky,All incandescent and opaline.I rest—but the loveliest day will die—Again in its last wan shadows—I shine!When the night is black, and the wind is loud,And danger is hidden, and peril abroad,The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud;His eye is on me, and his hope in God!Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eyeMeets his, and he hauls his groping line.“A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry;He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine!While standing alone in the summer sunSometimes I have visions and dreams of my own,Of long-life voyages just begun,And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown;And I would that men and women would markThe duty done by this lamp of mine;For many a life is lost in the dark,And few on earth are the lights that shine!Good Words.
High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and farTo the westward hills and the eastward sea,I shift my light like a twinkling star,With ever a star’s sweet constancy.They wait for me when the night comes down,And the slow sun falls in his death divine,Then braving the black night’s gathering frown,With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine!
High o’er the black-backed Skerries, and far
To the westward hills and the eastward sea,
I shift my light like a twinkling star,
With ever a star’s sweet constancy.
They wait for me when the night comes down,
And the slow sun falls in his death divine,
Then braving the black night’s gathering frown,
With ruby and diamond blaze—I shine!
There is war at my feet where the black rocks break,The thunderous snows of the rising sea;There is peace above when the stars are awake,Keeping their night-long watch with me.I care not a jot for the roar of the surge,The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine!As over its breadth to the furthest verge,Unwavering and untired—I shine!
There is war at my feet where the black rocks break,
The thunderous snows of the rising sea;
There is peace above when the stars are awake,
Keeping their night-long watch with me.
I care not a jot for the roar of the surge,
The wrath is the sea’s—the victory mine!
As over its breadth to the furthest verge,
Unwavering and untired—I shine!
First on my brow comes the pearly light,Dimming my lamp in the new-born day,One long, last look to left and right,And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-wayGrows bright with the smile and blush of the sky,All incandescent and opaline.I rest—but the loveliest day will die—Again in its last wan shadows—I shine!
First on my brow comes the pearly light,
Dimming my lamp in the new-born day,
One long, last look to left and right,
And I rest from my toil—for the broad sea-way
Grows bright with the smile and blush of the sky,
All incandescent and opaline.
I rest—but the loveliest day will die—
Again in its last wan shadows—I shine!
When the night is black, and the wind is loud,And danger is hidden, and peril abroad,The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud;His eye is on me, and his hope in God!Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eyeMeets his, and he hauls his groping line.“A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry;He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine!
When the night is black, and the wind is loud,
And danger is hidden, and peril abroad,
The seaman leaps on the swaying shroud;
His eye is on me, and his hope in God!
Alone, in the darkness, my blood-red eye
Meets his, and he hauls his groping line.
“A point to nor’ard!” I hear him cry;
He goes with a blessing, and still—I shine!
While standing alone in the summer sunSometimes I have visions and dreams of my own,Of long-life voyages just begun,And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown;And I would that men and women would markThe duty done by this lamp of mine;For many a life is lost in the dark,And few on earth are the lights that shine!
While standing alone in the summer sun
Sometimes I have visions and dreams of my own,
Of long-life voyages just begun,
And rocks unnoticed, and shoals unknown;
And I would that men and women would mark
The duty done by this lamp of mine;
For many a life is lost in the dark,
And few on earth are the lights that shine!
Good Words.
Good Words.
It matters little where I was born,If my parents were rich or poor;Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn,Or walked in the pride of wealth secure;But whether I live an honest man,And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am,It matters much!It matters little how long I stayIn a world of sorrow and care;Whether in youth I’m called away,Or live till my bones and pate are bare;But whether I do the best I canTo soften the weight of adversity’s touchOn the faded cheek of my fellow-man,It matters much!It matters little where is my grave,On the land or on the sea;By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave,It matters little or naught to me;But whether the angel Death comes down,And marks my brow with his loving touchAs one that shall wear the victor’s crown,It matters much!
It matters little where I was born,If my parents were rich or poor;Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn,Or walked in the pride of wealth secure;But whether I live an honest man,And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am,It matters much!It matters little how long I stayIn a world of sorrow and care;Whether in youth I’m called away,Or live till my bones and pate are bare;But whether I do the best I canTo soften the weight of adversity’s touchOn the faded cheek of my fellow-man,It matters much!It matters little where is my grave,On the land or on the sea;By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave,It matters little or naught to me;But whether the angel Death comes down,And marks my brow with his loving touchAs one that shall wear the victor’s crown,It matters much!
It matters little where I was born,If my parents were rich or poor;Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn,Or walked in the pride of wealth secure;But whether I live an honest man,And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am,It matters much!
It matters little where I was born,
If my parents were rich or poor;
Whether they shrank at the cold world’s scorn,
Or walked in the pride of wealth secure;
But whether I live an honest man,
And hold my integrity firm in my clutch,
I tell you, my brother, as plain as I am,
It matters much!
It matters little how long I stayIn a world of sorrow and care;Whether in youth I’m called away,Or live till my bones and pate are bare;But whether I do the best I canTo soften the weight of adversity’s touchOn the faded cheek of my fellow-man,It matters much!
It matters little how long I stay
In a world of sorrow and care;
Whether in youth I’m called away,
Or live till my bones and pate are bare;
But whether I do the best I can
To soften the weight of adversity’s touch
On the faded cheek of my fellow-man,
It matters much!
It matters little where is my grave,On the land or on the sea;By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave,It matters little or naught to me;But whether the angel Death comes down,And marks my brow with his loving touchAs one that shall wear the victor’s crown,It matters much!
It matters little where is my grave,
On the land or on the sea;
By purling brook or ’neath stormy wave,
It matters little or naught to me;
But whether the angel Death comes down,
And marks my brow with his loving touch
As one that shall wear the victor’s crown,
It matters much!
Josephine Pollard.
’Twas an ancient legend they used to tellWithin the glow of the kitchen hearth,When a sudden silence upon them fell,And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth:That whenever a dwelling was building new,There were demons ready to curse or blessThe noble structure, that daily grewPerfect in shape and comeliness.And when the sound of the tools had ceased,Hammer and nails, and plane and saw,Ere yet the dwelling could be releasedFrom the evil spirits,—there was a lawNo master-mechanic could be foundAble or willing to disobey—That a ladder be left upon the groundFor their enjoyment, a night and a day.And when the chimneys begin to roar,And voices harsh as the wintry windHowl and mock at the outer door,The ancient legend is brought to mind,And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon,Not fearing the master’s stern reproof,Has taken the ladder away too soonAnd left a demon upon the roof.And in every dwelling where joy comes not,And the buds of promise forget to bloom,Be it a palace or be it a cot,Amply splendid or scant of room,We may be sure that a demon elf,Fiendishly cruel and full of spite,Is sitting and grinning away to himselfUp on the ridge-pole, out of sight.But let it ever be borne in mindBy those who often this legend quote,That with every evil some good we find,For every ill there’s an antidote.And if we use but the magic spell,And hearts draw near that were kept aloof,Good angels then in our homes will dwell,Despite the demon upon the roof.
’Twas an ancient legend they used to tellWithin the glow of the kitchen hearth,When a sudden silence upon them fell,And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth:That whenever a dwelling was building new,There were demons ready to curse or blessThe noble structure, that daily grewPerfect in shape and comeliness.And when the sound of the tools had ceased,Hammer and nails, and plane and saw,Ere yet the dwelling could be releasedFrom the evil spirits,—there was a lawNo master-mechanic could be foundAble or willing to disobey—That a ladder be left upon the groundFor their enjoyment, a night and a day.And when the chimneys begin to roar,And voices harsh as the wintry windHowl and mock at the outer door,The ancient legend is brought to mind,And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon,Not fearing the master’s stern reproof,Has taken the ladder away too soonAnd left a demon upon the roof.And in every dwelling where joy comes not,And the buds of promise forget to bloom,Be it a palace or be it a cot,Amply splendid or scant of room,We may be sure that a demon elf,Fiendishly cruel and full of spite,Is sitting and grinning away to himselfUp on the ridge-pole, out of sight.But let it ever be borne in mindBy those who often this legend quote,That with every evil some good we find,For every ill there’s an antidote.And if we use but the magic spell,And hearts draw near that were kept aloof,Good angels then in our homes will dwell,Despite the demon upon the roof.
’Twas an ancient legend they used to tellWithin the glow of the kitchen hearth,When a sudden silence upon them fell,And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth:That whenever a dwelling was building new,There were demons ready to curse or blessThe noble structure, that daily grewPerfect in shape and comeliness.
’Twas an ancient legend they used to tell
Within the glow of the kitchen hearth,
When a sudden silence upon them fell,
And quenched the laughter and noisy mirth:
That whenever a dwelling was building new,
There were demons ready to curse or bless
The noble structure, that daily grew
Perfect in shape and comeliness.
And when the sound of the tools had ceased,Hammer and nails, and plane and saw,Ere yet the dwelling could be releasedFrom the evil spirits,—there was a lawNo master-mechanic could be foundAble or willing to disobey—That a ladder be left upon the groundFor their enjoyment, a night and a day.
And when the sound of the tools had ceased,
Hammer and nails, and plane and saw,
Ere yet the dwelling could be released
From the evil spirits,—there was a law
No master-mechanic could be found
Able or willing to disobey—
That a ladder be left upon the ground
For their enjoyment, a night and a day.
And when the chimneys begin to roar,And voices harsh as the wintry windHowl and mock at the outer door,The ancient legend is brought to mind,And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon,Not fearing the master’s stern reproof,Has taken the ladder away too soonAnd left a demon upon the roof.
And when the chimneys begin to roar,
And voices harsh as the wintry wind
Howl and mock at the outer door,
The ancient legend is brought to mind,
And we think, perhaps, that a careless loon,
Not fearing the master’s stern reproof,
Has taken the ladder away too soon
And left a demon upon the roof.
And in every dwelling where joy comes not,And the buds of promise forget to bloom,Be it a palace or be it a cot,Amply splendid or scant of room,We may be sure that a demon elf,Fiendishly cruel and full of spite,Is sitting and grinning away to himselfUp on the ridge-pole, out of sight.
And in every dwelling where joy comes not,
And the buds of promise forget to bloom,
Be it a palace or be it a cot,
Amply splendid or scant of room,
We may be sure that a demon elf,
Fiendishly cruel and full of spite,
Is sitting and grinning away to himself
Up on the ridge-pole, out of sight.
But let it ever be borne in mindBy those who often this legend quote,That with every evil some good we find,For every ill there’s an antidote.And if we use but the magic spell,And hearts draw near that were kept aloof,Good angels then in our homes will dwell,Despite the demon upon the roof.
But let it ever be borne in mind
By those who often this legend quote,
That with every evil some good we find,
For every ill there’s an antidote.
And if we use but the magic spell,
And hearts draw near that were kept aloof,
Good angels then in our homes will dwell,
Despite the demon upon the roof.
Dora Goodale.