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But oh, if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvas in.

WILLIAM COWPER, 1731-1800.

-Horace.

HASTE NOT: REST NOT.

WITHOUT haste! without rest!
Bind the motto to thy breast!

Bear it with thee as a spell;

Storm or sunshine, guard it well!

Heed not flowers that round thee bloom;

Bear it onward to the tomb!

Haste not-let no thoughtless deed

Mar for e'er the spirit's speed;

Ponder well, and know the right,
Onward, then, with all thy might;
Haste not-years can ne'er atone
For one reckless action done!

Rest not! life is sweeping by,
Do and DARE before you die;
Something mighty and sublime
Leave behind to conquer time;
Glorious 'tis to live for aye

When these forms have pass'd away!

Haste not! rest not! calmly wait;
Meekly bear the storms of fate;
Duty be thy polar guide-
Do the right, whate'er betide!
Haste not-rest not-conflicts past,
God shall crown thy work at last!
-German of Goethe.

LIFE'S HIGHER AIMS.

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless sighs are breathed for more.
Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase heaven has gold the power?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?
No-all that's worth a wish-a thought,
Fair virtue gives unbribed, unbought.
Cease then on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With science tread the wondrous way,
Or learn the muse's moral lay;

In social hours indulge thy soul,

Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;
To virtuous love resign thy breast,
And be, by blessing beauty, blest.

Thus taste the feast by nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, and Stella, and content;

And scorn! oh! let that scorn be thine!
Mere things of clay, that dig the mine.

SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709-1785.

DAILY WORK.

WHO lags for dread of daily work,
And his appointed task would shirk,
Commits a folly and a crime;

A soulless slave—a paltry knave—
A clog upon the wheels of Time.
With work to do, and store of health,
The man's unworthy to be free,

Who will not give, that he may live, His daily toil for daily fee.

No! let us work! We only ask
Reward proportion'd to our task :
We have no quarrel with the great;

No feud with rank-with mill or bankNo envy of a lord's estate.

If we can earn sufficient store

To satisfy our daily need;

And can retain, for age and pain,

A fraction, we are rich indeed.

No dread of toil have we or ours;

We know our worth, and weigh our powers; The more we work the more we win :

Success to Trade! success to Spade!

And to the corn that's coming in! And joy to him who o'er his task Remembers toil is Nature's plan;

Who, working, thinks-and never sinks His independence as a man.

Who only asks for humblest wealth,
Enough for competence and health;
And leisure, when his work is done,

To read his book by chimney-nook,

Or stroll at setting of the sun : Who toils, as every man should toil,

For fair reward, erect and free.

These are the men-the best of men

These are the men we mean to be!

CHARLES MACKAY, 1814

TRUST IN PROVIDENCE.

"Behold the fowls of the air!"-MATTHEW VI.

WHEN my breast labours with oppressive care,
And o'er my cheek descends the falling tear;
While all my warring passions are at strife,
Oh let me listen to the words of life!
Raptures deep-felt His doctrine did impart,
And thus He raised from earth the drooping heart.
Think not, when all your scanty stores afford,
Is spread at once upon the sparing board;
Think not, when worn the homely robe appears,
While, on the roof, the howling tempest bears;
What farther shall this feeble life sustain,
And what shall clothe the shivering limbs again.
Say, does not life its nourishment exceed?
And the fair body its investing weed?

Behold! and look away your low despair-
See the light tenants of the barren air :
To them nor stores nor granaries belong,
Nought but the woodland and the pleasing song:
Yet your kind heavenly Father bends His eye
On the least wing that flits along the sky.
To Him they sing when spring renews the plain,
To Him they cry in winter's pinching reign;
He hears the gay and the distressful call,
And with unsparing bounty fills them all.

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