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Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time,
To make them jog on more merrily with life's burden,
Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels.
Thou art too young, too full of lusty health
To talk of dying:

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VICTORIAN.

Yet I fain would die!
To go through life, unloving and unloved ;
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse,
And struggle after something we have not
And cannot love; the effort to be strong ;
And like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile,
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ;
All this the dead feel not, the dead alone!
Would I were with them!

HYPOLITO.

We shall all be soon.

VICTORIAN.

It cannot be too soon; for I am weary
of this bewildering masquerade of Life,
Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers;
Where whispers overheard betray false hearts;
And through the mazes of the crowd we chase
Some form of loveliness, that smiles and beckons,
And cheats us with fair words, only to leave us
A mockery and a jest; maddened, - confused, -
Not knowing friend from foe.

HYPOLITO.

Why seek to know?
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth !
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself,
Nor strive to look beneath it.

VICTORIAN.

I confess, That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man, Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off, And sinks again into the weltering sca, Helpless and hopeless!

HYPOLITO.

Yet thou shalt not perish. The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star!

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A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO. THE PSALMIST.

TELL me not, in mournful numbers,

' Life is but an empty dream!' For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is carnest!

And the grave is not its goal; • Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow

Finds us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are bcating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle

In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

Be a hero in the strife.

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act, - act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of Time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate; Still aching, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH.

UNDER a spreading chestnut tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms

Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,

His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat

He earns whatever he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,

For he owes not any man.

Week in and week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,

With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,

When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,

And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly

Like the chaff from a threshing floor.

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