17. The Living Temple.
Not in the world of life alone,
Where God has built his blazing throne,
Nor yet alone in earth below,
With belted seas that come and go,
And endless isles of sunlit green,
Is all thy Maker's glory seen:
Look in upon thy wondrous frame,—
Eternal wisdom still the same!
Oliver W. Holmes, Mass., 1809-.
Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory! the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;
Play the sweet keys, would'st thou keep them in tune!
Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world sirens that lure us to ill.
Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work,-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!
Frances S. Osgood, Mass., 1813-1850.
'Tis pleasant, by the cheerful hearth, to hear
Of tempests, and the dangers of the deep,
And pause at times, and feel that we are safe;
Then listen to the perilous tale again,
And, with an eager and suspended soul,
Woo Terror to delight us:—but to hear
The roaring of the raging elements,-
To know all human skill, all human strength
Avail not,-to look 'round, and only see
The mountain-wave, incumbent with its weight
Of bursting waters o'er the reeling bark,-
O God! this is indeed a dreadful thing!
And he who hath endured the horror, once,
Of such an hour, doth never hear the storm
Howl round his home, but he remembers it,
And thinks upon the suffering mariner.
Robt. Southey, England, 1774-1843.
Better trust all and be deceived,
And weep that trust and that deceiving,
Than doubt one heart that if believed
Had blessed one's life with true believing.
O, in this mocking world too fast
The doubting fiend o'ertakes our youth;
Better be cheated to the last
Than lose the blessed hope of truth.
Frances A. Kemble, England, 1811-.
The world is full of Poetry,-the air
Is living with its spirit; and the waves
Dance to the music of its melodies,
And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled,
And mantled with its beauty; and the walls
That close the universe with crystal in,
Are eloquent with voices, that proclaim
The unseen glories of immensity,
In harmonies, too perfect, and too high
For aught but beings of celestial mould,
And speak to man, in one eternal hymn,—
Unfading beauty, and unyielding power.
Jas. G. Percival, Conn., 1795-1856.
That have lost nothing; they are poorer far
Who, losing, have forgotten; they most poor
Of all, who lose and wish they might forget.
For life is one, and in its warp and woof
There runs a thread of gold that glitters fair,
And sometimes in the pattern shows most sweet
When there are somber colors. It is true
That we have wept. But O! this thread of gold,
We would not have it tarnish; let us turn
Oft and look back upon the wondrous web,
And when it shineth sometimes, we shall know
That memory is in possession.
Jean Ingelor, England, 1830-.
23. A Twilight Picture.
The twilight deepened round us.
The great woods climbed the mountain at our back:
And on their skirts, where yet the lingering day
On the shorn greenness of the clearing lay,
The brown old farm-house like a bird's nest hung.
With home-life sounds the desert air was stirred:
The bleat of sheep along the hill we heard,
The bucket plashing in the cool, sweet well,
The pasture-bars that clattered as they fell;
Dogs barked, fowls fluttered, cattle lowed; the gate
Of the barn-yard creaked beneath the merry weight
Of sun brown children, listening, while they swung,
The welcome sound of supper-call to hear;
And down the shadowy lane, in tinklings clear,
The pastoral curfew of the cow-bell rung.
J. G. Whittier, Mass., 1808.
24. Knowledge and Wisdom.
Knowledge and wisdom, far from being one,
Have oft-times no connection. Knowledge dwells
In heads replete with thoughts of other men;
Wisdom in minds attentive to their own.
Knowledge, a rude, unprofitable mass,
The mere materials with which Wisdom builds,
Till smoothed and squared and fitted to its place,
Does but encumber whom it seems to enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much,
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.
Wm. Cowper, England, 1731-1800
Ah! when did Wisdom covet length of days,
Or seek its bliss in pleasure, wealth, or praise?
No: Wisdom views, with an indifferent eye
All finite joys, all blessings born to die;
The soul on earth is an immortal guest,
Compelled to starve at an unreal feast;
A spark which upward tends by nature's force,
A stream diverted from its parent source;
A drop dissevered from the boundless sea;
A moment parted from eternity;
A pilgrim panting for a rest to come,
An exile anxious for his native home.
Hannah More, England, 1745-1833.
But from its loss: to give it then a tongue
Is wise in man. As if an angel spoke,
I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
It is the knell of my departed hours.
Where are they? With the years beyond the flood.
It is the signal that demands despatch:
How much is to be done! My hopes and fears
Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge
Look down-on what? A fathomless abyss !
A dread eternity! how surely mine!
And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?
Edw. Young, England, 1684-1765.
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