Where seeming repentance is herald of despair, instead of hope's forerunner.

MOREOVER, in thy day of Grief,—for friends, or fame, or for

tune,

Well I wot the heart shall ache, and mind be numbed in

torpor :

Let nature weep; leave her alone; the freshet of her sorrow must run off;

And sooner will the lake be clear, relieved of turbid floodings. Yet see that her license hath a limit; with the novelty her

agony is over;

Hasten in that earliest calm, to tie her in the leash with Reason.

For regrets are an enervating folly, and the season for energy

is come,

Yea rather, that the future may repair with diligence the ruins of the past.

AGAIN, for empty fears, the harassings of possible calamity; Pray, and thou shalt prosper; trust in God, and tread them

down.

Yield to the phantasy,-thou sinnest; resist it, He will aid thee:

Out of Him there is no help, nor any sober courage.

Feeble is the comfort of the faithless, a man without a God,
Who dare counsel such an one to fling away his fears?
Fear is the heritage of him, a portion wise and merciful,
To drive the trembler into safety, if haply he may turn and
flee:

Nevertheless, let him reckon an he will, that all he counteth casual

May as well be for him as against him: dice have many

sides,

And, even as in ailments of the body, diseases follow closely upon dreads,

So, with infirmities of mind, is fear the pallid harbinger of

failure.

It were wise to talk undaunted even in an accidental chaos, For the brave man is at peace and free to get the mastery of circumstance.

The stoutest armor of defence is that which is worn within the bosom,

And the weapon that no enemy can parry, is a bold and cheerful spirit:

Catapults in old war worked like Titans, crushing foes with

rocks;

So doth a strong-springed heart throw back every load on its assailants.

I WENT heavily for cares, and fell into the trance of sorrow: And behold, a vision in my trance, and my ministering angel brought it.

There stood a mountain huge and steep, the awful Rock of

Ages;

The sun upon its summit, and storms midway, and deep ravines at foot,

And, as I looked, a dense black cloud, suddenly dropping from the thunder,

Filled, like a cataract with yeasty foam, a narrow smiling

valley:

Close and hard that vaporous mass seemed to press the

ground,

And lamentable sounds came up, as of some that were smothering beneath.

Then, as I walked upon the mountain, clear in summer's

noon,

For charity I called aloud, Ho! climb up hither to the sun

shine.

And even like a stream of light my voice had pierced the

mist;

I saw below two families of men, and knew their names of

old;

Courage, struggling through the darkness, stout of heart and gladsome,

Ran up the shining ladder which the voice of hope had

made:

And tripping lightly by his side, a sweet-eyed helpmate with

him,

I looked upon her face to welcome pleasant Cheerfulness; And a babe was cradled in her bosom, a laughing little

prattler,

The child of Cheerfulness and Courage,-could his name be other than Success?

So, from his happy wife, when they both stood beside me on the mountain,

The fond father took that babe, and set him on his shoulder in the sunshine.

AGAIN I peered into the valley, for I heard a gasping moan, A desolate weak cry, as muffled in the vapors.

So down that crystal shaft into the poisonous mine

I sped for charity to seek and save,-and those I sought fled from me.

At length, I spied far distant, a trembling withered dwarf, Who crouched beneath the cloak of a tall and spectral

mourner;

Then I knew Cowardice and Gloom, and followed them on in darkness,

Guided by their rustling robes and moans and muffled cries, Until in a suffocating pit the wretched pair had perished,And lo, their whitening bones were shaping out an epitaph of Failure.

So I saw that despondency was death, and flung my burdens from me,

And, lightened by that effort, I was raised above the world; Yea, in the strangeness of my vision, I seemed to soar on

wings,

And the names they called my wings were Cheerfulness and Wisdom.

OF YESTERDAY

SPEAK, poor almsman of to-day, whom none can assure of a to-morrow,

Tell out, with honest heart, the price thou settest upon yes

terday.

Is it then a writing in the dust, traced by the finger of idle

ness,

Which Industry, clean housewife, can wipe away for

ever?

Is it as a furrow on the sand, fashioned by the toying waves, Quickly to be trampled then again by the feet of the returning tide?

Is it as the pale blue smoke, rising from a peasant's hovel,
That melted into limpid air, before it topped the larches ?
Is it but a vision, unstable and unreal, which wise men soon
forget?

Is it as the stranger of the night,-gone, we heed not whither?
Alas! thou foolish heart, whose thoughts are but as these,
Alas! deluded soul, that hopeth thus of Yesterday.

FOR, behold, those temples of Ellora, the Brahmin's rockbuilt shrine,

Behold,―yon granite cliff, which the North Sea buffeteth in vain,

That stout old forest fir,-these waking verities of life,This guest abiding ever, not strange, nor a servant, but a son,Such, G man, are vanity and dreams, transient as a rainbow on the cloud,

Weighed against that solid fact, thine ill-remembered Yes

terday.

CORE, let me show thee an ensample, where Nature shal: instruct us;

Luxuriantly the arguments for truth spring native in her gardens.

Seek we yonder woodman of the plain; he is measuring his axe to the elm,

And anon the sturdy strokes ring upon the wintry air:

Eagerly the village schoolboys cluster on the tightened rope, Shouting, and bending to the pull, or lifted from the ground

elastic;

The huge tree boweth like Sisera, boweth to its foes with faintness,

Its sinews crack,-deep groans declare the reeling anguish of Goliath,

The wedge is driven home,-and the saw is at its heart,and lo, with solemn slowness,

The shuddering monarch riseth from his throne,-toppled with a crash, and is fallen!

Now, shall the mangled stump teach proud man a lesson; Now, can we from that elm-tree's sap distil the wine of Truth.

Heed ye those hundred rings, concentric from the core, Eddying in various waves to the red bark's shore-like rim; These be the gathering of yesterdays, present all to-day, This is the tree's judgment, self-history that cannot be gain

said:

Seven years agone there was a drought,—and the seventh ring is narrowed;

The fifth from hence was half a deluge,-the fifth was cellular and broad.

Thus, Man, thou art a result, the growth of many yester

days,