Brutal, and mean, and dark enough, Our cruse of oil will not grow less THE BRIGHT SIDE. 'HERE is many a rest in the road of life, To the sunny soul that is full of hope, And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth, Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through, Or a mother's prayers to Heav、n; Better to weave in the web of life And then blame heaven for the tangled ends, CARVING A NAME. WROTE my name upon the sand, And trusted it would stand for aye; But soon, alas! the refluent sea Had washed my feeble lines away. I carved my name upon the wood, I missed the shadow of the tree That stretched of old upon the plain. To solid marble next my name All these have failed. In wiser mood From kindly words and actions wrougin: HORATIO ALGER. THE HARDEST TIME OF ALL. 'HERE are days of deepest sorrow Youth and love are oft impatient, Seeking things beyond their reach; We can bear the heat of conflict; Is the hardest time of all. Yet, at last, we learn the lesson, Makes the spirit calm and blest: MY SHIPS. HAVE ships that went to sea, In the distance they are seen There is little cheer for me, Waiting so, waiting so; Waiting through the starless night For the coming of the light, For my ships which went to sea I've a ship which went to sea Years ago, years ago, And the gallant little craft While the homeward gales to me The roads and fields are buried deep The hedges lie in a tangled heap And the little grey rabbits under them creep, The rough old barn and the sheds near by, The straggling fences are softened with down And I think, as I sit in the gloaming here, How many things are folded low Under the drifts of the falling snow; There are hearts that once were full of love There are lips that once were like the rose; There are bosoms that once were stung with woes; Another mound will soon lie deep And I shall with the pale ones sleep O God! stream on my soul Thy grace, I may rejoice, when death shall place JOHN H. BONNAR. LITTLE child, beside the widow-pane, Held in his hand a diamond, pure and And saw in every clear and burning plane Across the pane he drew the tiny stone, "Not there, my son! not there," his father said, Coming to join our march, "Not there, my child! though every word appear As threaded silver shining in the sun. The jewel-point has left it crisp and clear; The diamond's work can never be undone. 'Thine eye may weary, but the line must stand; Thy thought may change, but here 'tis traced in light; The fairest touches wrought by childish hand May yet offend thy manhood's fairer sight. "Nay, school thy hand, and wait a future day, O daily life! thy fair and crystal page By erring hands is written o'er and o'er, We cannot pause. 'Tis not for human will May leave their records beautiful and just. The immortal truth demands each thoughtful hour, GOING AND COMING. OING-the great round sun, Coming-the dusky night, Wrapping himself in the soft, warm couch, Going-the bright, blithe spring. Blossoms! how fast ye fall, Shooting out of your starry sky Into the darkness all Blindly! Coming-the mellow days, Crimson and yellow leaves; Languishing purple and amber fruits, Kissing the bearded sheaves Kindly. Going-our early friends. Voices we loved are dumb; Footsteps grow dim in the morning dew; Fainter the echoes come Ringing: Shoulder to shoulder pressed, Gray-haired veterans strike their tents For the far-off purple WestSinging. Going this old, old life. Beautiful world, farewell! Forest and meadow, river and hill, Ring ye a loving knell O'er us! Coming-a noble life; Coming-a better land; Coming-a long, long, nightless day; Coming-the grand, grand Chorus ! EDWARD A. Jenks. TOLL, THEN, NO MORE. 'OLL for the dead, toll! toll! No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout! For the pearly gates they have entered in, And they no more shall sin― Ring out, ye bells, ring! RING! Toll for the living, toll! toll! No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout! For they do His work 'mid toil and din They, too, thy goal shall winRing out, ye bells, ring! RING! Toll for the coming, toll! toll! No, no! Ring out, ye bells, ring out and shout! For 't is theirs to conquer, theirs to win The final entering in Ring out, ye bells, ring! RING! '00 late, too late, was never said Of morning sun, or bud, or flower: The rose-bud opens to the hour, The sun goes down before the flame And we are scourged with inward shame, To think our breasts have harbored hate, And pride bows down too late, too late! "Too late, too late!" the poor man cries; He asks his right, the court delays, Till ruin comes in fearful guise. In vain he pleads, in vain he prays; The law requires too much debate, And justice comes too late, too late! "Too late, too late!" who has not said? The mail has closed-the train is goneThe time has fled-the debt not paid— The aid not sought-the work not done : Neglect makes up life's weary freight, And then we cry, "Too late, too late!" JAMES WESTON. "What with my brats and sickly wife," Quoth Dick, "I'm almost tired of life; So hard my work, so poor my fare, 'Tis more than mortal man can bear. "How glorious is the rich man's state! His house so fine, his wealth so great! Heaven is unjust, you must agree; Why all to him? Why none to me? "In spite of what the Scripture teaches, Quoth John, "Our ignorance is the cause "See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear Dick, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there, So rude the mass it makes one stare! "A stranger, ignorant of the trade, Quoth Dick, "My work is yet in bits, Says John, "Thou say'st the thing I mean, "As when we view these shreds and ends, "No plan, no pattern, can we trace; "But when we reach that world of light, "What now seem random strokes, will there All order and design appear; Then shall we praise what here we spurned, For then the carpet shall be turned." ILY bells! lily bells! swinging and ringing Sweet golden bells on the still summer air, Are ye calling the birds to their matins of singing, Summoning nature to worship and prayer? Lily bells! lily bells! daintily swaying, Poising your petals like butterflies' wings, As the breeze murmurs round you, pray, what is he saying? Is he whispering love-words and soft, pretty things? Lily bells! lily bells! 'mid the long grasses Gleaming like sunbeams in still shady bower, Have you stolen your gold from the sun as he passes? Are ye guarding your treasure in bud and in flower? Lily bells! lily bells! bowing and bending, Are ye nodding a welcome to me as I go? Do ye know that my heart bears a love never-ending For bright golden lily-bells all in a row? Lily bells! lily bells! down in the meadows, As I see your fair forms 'mid the mosses and brake, My heart wanders back to the past, with its shadows, To Christ, and the wise, loving words that He spake. "Consider the lilies"-yes, this was His teaching, "The modest field-lilies that toil not nor spin, Yet even to them is my loving care reaching, My heart takes the feeblest and lowliest in." Lily bells! lily bells! waving and swinging, Lily bells! lily bells! bending and swaying, THE WAY TO HEAVEN. EAVEN is not gained at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round. I count this thing to be grandly true, That a noble deed is a step towards God— We rise by things that are 'neath our feet; When the morning calls us to life and light, But our hearts grow weary, and, ere the night Our lives are trailing the sordid dust. We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray, And we think that we mount the air on wings Wings for the angels, but feet for the men: We may borrow the wings to find the way— We may hope and resolve and aspire and pray, But our feet must rise, or we fall again. Only in dreams is a ladder thrown From the weary earth to the sapphire walls; But the dreams depart, and the vision falls, And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone. Heaven is not reached at a single bound; But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round. Josiah Gilbert Holland. THREE WORDS OF STRENGTH. HERE are three lessons I would writeThree words, as with a burning pen, In tracings of eternal light, Upon the hearts of men. Have hope. Though clouds environ round, And gladness hides her face in scorn, Put off the shadow from thy brow- Have faith. Where'er thy bark is driven- Have love. Not love alone for one; But man, as man, thy brother call; And scatter, like the circling sun, Thy charities on all. Thus grave these lessons on thy soul— Hope, faith, and love—and thou shalt find Strength when life's surges rudest roll, Light when thou else wert blind. FREDERICK SCHILLER THE NAUTILUS AND THE AMMONITE. HE nautilus and the ammonite Were launched in friendly strife; And theirs was a bliss more fair than this A brighter and better clime. They swam 'mid isles whose summer smiles Were dimmed by no alloy; Whose groves were palm, whose air was balm, They sailed all day through creek and bay, They beheld in their ocean-caves ; And hand in hand, from strand to strand, And they came at last to a sea long past, So the nautilus now, in its shelly prow, |