Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Lives of great men all remind us Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Learn to labor and to wait. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. HERE is a Reaper, whose name is He reaps Death, And, with his sickle keen, the bearded grain at a breath, And the flowers that grow between. Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he; “Have naught but the bearded grain ? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me, I will give them all back again." He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay," The Reaper said, and smiled; "Dear tokens of the earth are they, Where he was once a child. "They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, O, not in cruelty, not in wrath, "T was an angel visited the green earth, |