MISSPENT TIME.

THERE is no remedy for time misspent ;

No healing for the waste of idleness, Whose very languor is a punish

ment

Heavier than active souls can feel or guess.

O hours of indolence and discontent, Not now to be redeemed! ye sting not less

Because I know this span of life was lent

For lofty duties, not for selfishness, Not to be whiled away in aimless dreams,

But to improve ourselves, and serve mankind,

Life and its choicest faculties were given.

Man should be ever better than he seems,

And shape his acts, and discipline his mind, To walk adorning earth, with hope of heaven.

COLUMBUS.

HE was a man whom danger could not daunt, [due; Nor sophistry perplex, nor pain sub A stoic, reckless of the world's vain taunt,

And steeled the path of honor to pursue;

So, when by all deserted, still he knew

How best, to soothe the heart-sick, or confront

Sedition, schooled with equal eye to view

The frowns of grief, and the base pangs of want.

But when he saw that promised land arise

In all its rare and bright varieties, Lovelier than fondest fancy ever trod; Then softening nature melted in his eyes;

Abounding from its sources like a river

Which through the dim lawns streams eternally!

Virtue might then uplift her crest on high,

Spurning those myriad bonds that fret and grieve her:

Then all the powers of hell would quake and quiver

Before the ardors of her awful eye. Alas for man with all his high de sires,

And inward promptings fading day by day!

High-titled honor pants while it expires,

And clay-born glory turns again to clay.

Low instincts last: our great resolves Like winds whose loftiest pæan ends pass by but in a sigh.

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And slyly he traileth along the ground,

And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around

The rich mould of dead men's
graves.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed,

And nations scattered been; But the stout old Ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise

Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

THE CHILDREN.

WHEN the lessons and tasks are all

ended,

Ere

the world and its wickedness made me

A partner of sorrow and sin,

missed,

The little ones gather around me,

To bid me good-night and be kissed; Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in their tender embrace! Oh, the smiles that are halos of heav

en,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face!

And when they are gone I sit dreaming

Of my childhood too lovely to last; Of joy that my heart will remember, While it wakes to the pulse of the past,

And the glory of gladness within.