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Angels of Life and Death alike are his;
Without his leave they pass no threshold o'er; Who, then, would wish or dare, believing this,
Against his messengers to shut the door?
God sent his Singers upon earth
The first, a youth, with soul of fire,
The second, with a bearded face,
A gray, old man, the third and last,
While the majestic organ rolled
And those who heard the singers three
But the great Master said, “I see
“These are the three great chords of might,
A PSALM OF LIFE.
WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO
TELL me not, in mournful numbers,
“Life is but an empty dream!” For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
Ind the grave is not its goal; “Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
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,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,-act in the living Present !
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
O LITTLE feet! that such long years
Must ache and bleed beneath your load;
Am weary, thinking of your road!
O little hands! that, weak or strong,
Have still so long to give or ask;
Am weary, thinking of your task.
O little hearts ! that throb and beat
Such limitless and strong desires;
Now covers and conceals its fires.
O little souls! as pure and white
Direct from heaven, their source divine;
How lurid looks this soul of mine!