THE GOOD TIME COMING.

THERE'S a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:

We e may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon-balls may aid the truth,
But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid; ·
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:

The pen shall supersede the sword, And Right, not Might, shall be the lord

In the good time coming. Worth, not Birth, shall rule man

kind,

And be acknowledged stronger; The proper impulse has been given;Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
War, in all men's eyes, shall be
A monster of iniquity

In the good time coming.
Nations shall not quarrel then,

To prove which is the stronger; Nor slaughter men for glory's sake;Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Hateful rivalries of creed

Shall not make their martyrs bleed

In the good time coming. Religion shall be shorn of pride, And flourish all the stronger; And Charity shall trim her lamp;Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
And a poor man's family
Shall not be his misery

In the good time coming.
Every child shall be a help,

To make his right arm stronger; The happier he, the more he has;Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
Little children shall not toil,
Under or above the soil,

In the good time coming;
But shall play in healthful fields

Till limbs and mind grow stronger And every one shall read and write; -Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming:
The people shall be temperate,
And shall love instead of hate,

In the good time coming.
They shall use, and not abuse,
And make all virtue stronger.
The reformation has begun;
Wait a little longer.

There's a good time coming, boys.
A good time coming:
Let us aid it all we can,
Every woman, every man,

The good time coming.
Smallest helps, if rightly given,
Make the impulse stronger;
"Twill be strong enough one day;·
Wait a little longer.

THE LIGHT IN THE WINDOW

LATE or early, home returning,
In the starlight or the rain,
I beheld that lonely candle
Shining from his window-pane.

Undistinguished was his name:
Never had his praise been uttered
By the oracles of fame.
Scanty fare and decent raiment,
Humble lodging, and a fire-
These he sought for,
These he wrought for,
And he gained his meek desire;
Teaching men by written word
Clinging to a hope deferred.

So he lived. At last I missed him;
Still might evening twilight fall,
But no taper lit his lattice-
Lay no shadow on his wall.
In the winter of his seasons,
In the midnight of his day,
'Mid his writing,
And inditing,

Who shall tell what schemes majestic
Perish in the active brain?

What humanity is robbed of,
Ne'er to be restored again?

What we lose, because we honor
Overmuch the mighty dead,
And dispirit

Living merit,

Heaping scorn upon its head?
Or perchance, when kinder grown,
Leaving it to die - alone?

O YE TEARS!

O YE tears! O ye tears! that have long refused to flow,

Ye are welcome to my heart

thaw ing, thawing, like the snow; I feel the hard clod soften, and the early snowdrops spring,

And the healing fountains gush, and the wildernesses sing.

O ye tears! O ye tears! I am thankful that ye run;

Though ye trickle in the darkness, ye shall glitter in the sun. The rainbow cannot shine if the rain refuse to fall,

And the eyes that cannot weep are the saddest eyes of all.

O ye tears! O ye tears! till I felt you on my cheek,

was selfish in my sorrow, I was stub born, I was weak.

O ye tears! O ye tears! of my pain; The barren rock of pride has been stricken once again: Like the rock that Moses smote, amid Horeb's burning sand, It yields the flowing water to make gladness in the land.

Or shoulders of the mountain looming high,

sunshine in my heart,

And the leaf and fruit of life shall not utterly depart;

Ye restore to me the freshness and the bloom of long ago

O ye tears! happy tears! I am thankful that ye flow!

A QUESTION ANSWERED. WHAT to do to make thy fame

Live beyond thee in the tomb ? And thine honorable name Shine, a star, through history's gloom?

Seize the Spirit of thy Time,

Take the measure of his height, Look into his eyes sublime,

And imbue thee with their light.

Know his words ere they are spoken, And with utterance loud and clear, Firm, persuasive, and unbroken,

Breathe them in the people's ear.

Think whate'er the Spirit thinks, Feel thyself whate'er he feels, Drink at fountains where he drinks, And reveal what he reveals.

And whate'er thy medium be,

Canvas, stone, or printed sheet, Fiction, or philosophy,

Or a ballad for the street;

Or, perchance, with passion fraught, Spoken words, like lightnings

thrown,

Tell the people all thy thought,

And the world shall be thine own!

breeze;

Adorner of the nude rude breast of hills,

Mantle of meadows, fringe of gushing rills,

Humblest of all the humble, thou shalt be,

If to none else, exalted unto me, And for a time, a type of joy on earth

Joy unobtrusive, of perennial birth, Common as light and air, and warmth and rain,

And all the daily blessings that in vain Woo us to gratitude: the earliest born Of all the juicy verdures that adorn The fruitful bosom of the kindly soil; Pleasant to eyes that ache and limbs that toil.

Lo! as I muse, I see the bristling

Pleased with the thought, I nurse it for a while,

And then dismiss it with a faint halfsmile.

And next I fancy thee a multitude, Moved by one breath, obedient to the mood

Of one strong thinker - the resistless wind,

That, passing o'er thee, bends thee to its mind.

See how thy blades, in myriads as they grow,

Turn ever eastward as the west winds blow

Just as the human crowd is swayed and bent,

By some great preacher, madly eloquent,

Who moves them at his will, and with a breath

Gives them their bias both in life and death.

Or by some wondrous actor, when he draws

All eyes and hearts, amid a hushed applause,

Not to be uttered, lest delight be marred;

Or, greater still, by hymn of prophetbard,

Who moulds the lazy present by his rhyme,

And sings the glories of a future time.

Tell me, my secret soul,
Oh! tell me, Hope and Faith,
Is there no resting-place
From sorrow, sin, and death?
Is there no happy spot

Where mortals may be blest,

Where grief may find a balm,
And weariness a rest?
Faith, Hope, and Love, best boons
to mortals given,

Waved their bright wings, and whispered, "Yes, in heaven."

A DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew, Shed from the bosom of the morn Into the blowing roses, (Yet careless of its mansion new For the clear region where 'twas born) Round in itself incloses, And in its little globe's extent Frames, as it can, its native element. How it the purple flower does slight, Scarce touching where it lies; But gazing back upon the skies, Shines with a mournful light,

Like its own tear, Because so long divided from the sphere.

Restless it rolls, and unsecure, Trembling, lest it grow impure; Till the warm sun pities its pain, And to the skies exhales it back again. So the soul, that drop, that ray, Of the clear fountain of eternal day, Conld it within the human flower be seen,

Remembering still its former height,

Shuns the sweet leaves and blossoms green,

And, recollecting its own light, Does, in its pure and circling thoughts,

express

The greater heaven in a heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go!
How girt and ready to ascend!
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upward bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew dis-
til,

White and entire, although congealed and chill

Congealed on earth, but does, dis solving, run

Into the glories of th' almighty sun.

JERUSALEM the Golden!
I weary for one gleam

Of all thy glory folden

In distance and in dream! My thoughts, like palms in exile, Climb up to look and pray For a glimpse of thy dear country That lies so far away.

Jerusalem the Golden!

Methinks each flower that blows, And every bird a-singing

Of thee, some secret knows;
I know not what the flowers
Can feel, or singers see;
But all these summer raptures
Seem prophecies of thee.