The earth is flecked wi' flowers, mony tinted, fresh, an' gay, The birdies warble blithely, for my I've his gude word of promise that Wi' een an wi' hearts runnin' owre, we shall see The King in his beauty in our ain countree. My sins hae been mony, an' my sor rows hae been sair, But there they'll never vex me, nor be remembered mair; His bluid has made me white, his Like a bairn to its mither, a wee birdie to its nest, I wad fain be ganging noo, unto my Saviour's breast: For he gathers in his bosom, witless, worthless lambs like me, An' carries them himsel' to his ain countree. SIR AUBREY DE VERE. MISSPENT TIME. THERE is no remedy for time misspent ; No healing for the waste of idleness, Whose very languor is a punishment 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 pur- . sue; 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; Permission first his heavenly feet to | Abounding from its sources like a lave. Then lay before him all thou hast. Allow No cloud of passion to usurp thy brow, Or mar thy hospitality; no wave Like joy, majestic, equable, sedate; Confirming, cleansing, raising, making free; Strong to consume small troubles; to commend Great thoughts, grave thoughts, thoughts lasting to the end. BEATITUDE. BLESSED is he who hath not trod the ways Of secular delights; nor learned the lore Which loftier minds are studious to abhor. Blessed is he who hath not sought the praise That perishes, the rapture that betrays: | 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 pass by Like winds whose loftiest pæan ends but in a sigh. ALL THINGS SWEET WHEN PRIZED. SAD is our youth, for it is ever going, Crumbling away beneath our very feet: Who hath not spent in Time's vain-Sad is our life, for onward it is flow glorious war ing His youth: and found, a school-boy In current unperceived, because so at fourscore, fleet: DICKENS · DICKINSON. 187 CHARLES DICKENS. 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, CHARLES M. DICKINSON. THE CHILDREN. WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended, Ere the world and its wickedness made me A partner of sorrow and sin, And the school for the day is dis- When the glory of God was about me, missed, And the glory of gladness within. |