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Juggling's no sin, for we must have victual:

Nature allows us to bait for the fool. Holding one's own makes us juggle no little;

But, to increase it, hard juggling's the rule. You that are sneering at my profession,

Haven't you juggled a vast amount? There's the Prime Minister, in one Session,

Juggles more games than my sins 'll count.

Yonder came smells of the gore, so nutty,

Gold-like and warm : it's the prime of May. Better than mortar, brick, and putty,

Is God's house in a blowing day. Lean me more up the mound; now I feel it;

All the old heath-smells! Ain't it strange? There's the world laughing, as if to conceal it,

But He's by us, juggling the change.

I've murder'd insects with mock thunder:

Conscience, for that, in men don't quail. I've made bread from the bump of wonder:

That's my business, and there's my tale. Fashion and rank all praised the professor:

Ay! and I've had my smile from the Queen: Bravo, Jerry! she meant: God bless her!

Ain't this a sermon on that scene?

I mind it well, by the sea-beach lying,
Once—it's long gone—when two gulls we be.

Which, as the moon got up, were flying

Down a big wave that sparklid and swell’d. Crack! went a gun: one fell: the second Wheel'd round him twice, and was off for new

luck: There in the dark her white wing beckon'd:

Drop me a kiss—I'm the bird dead-struck!



I've studied men from my topsy-turvey

Close, and, I reckon, rather true.
Some are fine fellows: some right scurvy:

Most, a dash between the two.
But if it's a woman, old girl, that makes me

Think more kindly of the race:
And its a woman, old girl, that shakes me

When the Great Juggler I must face.
We two were married, due and legal:

Honest we've lived since we've been one. Lord! I could then jump like an eagle:

You danced bright as a bit o'ti.c sun. Birds in a May-bush we were! right merry!

All night we kiss'd—we juggled al day. Joy was the heart of Juggling Jerry!

Now from his old girl he's juggled away. It's past parsons to console us:

No, nor no doctor fetch for me: I can die without my bolus;

Two of a trade, lass, never agree! Parsons and Doctors-don't they lo re rarely,

Fighting the devil in other men's fields ! Stand up yourself and match him fairly:

Then see how the rascal yields!

Night is the time for rest;

How sweet, when labors close, To gather round an aching breast

The curtain of repose, Stretch the tired limbs, and lay the head Upon our own delightful bed! Night is the time for dreams;

The gay romance of life,
When truth that is, and truth that seems,

Blend in fantastic strife;
Ah! visions less beguiling far
Than waking dreams by daylight are!
Night is the time for toil;

To plough the classic field,
Intent to find the buried spoil

Its wealthy furrows yield;
Till all is ours that sages taught,
That poets sang or heroes wrought.

Night is the time to weep;

To wet with unseen tears
Those graves of memory where sleep

The joys of other years;
Hopes that were angels in their birth,
But perished young like things on earth!

I, lass, have lived no gipsy, flaunting

Finery while his poor helpmate grubs: Coin I've stored, and you won't be wanting:

You shan't beg from the trouchs and tubs. Nobly you've stuck to me, though in his kitchen Many a marquis would hail

you cook! Palaces


could have ruled and grown rich in, But your old Jerry you never torsook. Hand

up the chirper! ripe ale winks in it; Let's have comfort and be at peace. Once a stout draught made me light as a linnet.

Cheer up! the Lord must have his lease. May be—for none see in that black hollow

It's just a place where we're held in pawn, And, when the Great Juggler makes as to swallow,

It's just the sword-trick- I ain't quite gone!

Night is the time to watch;

On ocean's dark expanse To hail the Pleiades, or catch

The full moon's earliest glance, That brings into the homesick mind All we have loved and left behind.

Night is the time for care;

Brooding on hours misspent, To see the spectre of despair

Come to our lonely tent;


Like Brutus, 'midst his slumbering host, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Summoned to die by Cæsar's ghost.

Among their branches, till at last they stood,

As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Night is the time to think;

Fit shrine for humble worshiper to hold
Then from the eye the soul

Communion with his Maker. Here are seen
Takes flight, and on the utmost brink

No traces of man's pomp or pride ;-no silks
Of yonder starry pole,

Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Discerns beyond the abyss of night

Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The dawn of uncreated light.

The boast of our vain race to change the form

Of thy fair works. But thou art here—thou fill'st
Night is the time to pray;

The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
Our Saviour oft withdrew

That run along the summits of these trees
To desert mountains far away;

In music;—thou art in the cooler breath,
So will his followers do,

That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Steal from the throng to haunis untrou,

Comes, scarcely felt;—the barky trunks, the ground,
And commune there alone with God.

The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.

Here is continual worship;-nature, here,
Night is the time for death;
When all around is peace,

In the tranquility that thou dost love,
Calmly to yield the weary breath,

Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From sin and suffering cease:

From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Think of heaven's bliss, and give the sign

Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,

Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
To parting friends—such death be mine!

Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale

Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left

Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and graces

Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oakThe groves were God's first temples. Ere man By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem learned

Almost annihilated—not a prince,
To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
And spread the roof above them,-ere he framed E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

Wears the green coronal of leaves with which The sound of anthems,—in the darkling wood, Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down

Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks

Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, And supplication. For his simple heart

With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Might not resist the sacred influences,

Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
That, from the stilly twilight of the place,

An emanation of the indwelling Life,
And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, A visible token of the upholding Love,
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound That are the soul of this wide universe.
Of the invisible breath that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed My heart is awed within me, when I think
His spirit with the thought of boundless Power Of the great miracle that still goes on,
And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why

In silence, round me—the perpetual work
Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Forever. Written on thy works, I read
Only among the crowd, and under roofs

The lesson of thy own eternity.
That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least, Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again,
Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find

Youth presses—ever gay and beautiful youth, Acceptance in his ear.

In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees

Wave not less proudly that their ancestors
Father, thy hand

Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost
Hath reared these venerable columns; thou

One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look After the flight of untold centuries, down

The freshness of her far beginning lies, Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Of his arch enemy Death-yea, seats himselft Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe

Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.


There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ;-and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swist, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, Uprises the great deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities;—who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? Oh, from these sterner aspects of thy face, Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And, to the beautiful order of thy works, Learn to conform the order of our lives.


The sun was nigh its set, when we were come Once more where stood the good man's lowly home. We sat beside the door; a gorgeous sight Above our heads—the elm in golden light. Thoughtful and silent for awhile-he then Talked of my coming.--" Thou'lt not go again From thine own vale; and we will make thy home Pleasant; and it shall glad thee to have come.” Then of my garden and my house he spoke, And well ranged orchard on the sunny slope; And grew more bright and happy in his talk Of social winter eve, and summer walk. And, while I listened, to my sadder soul A sunnier, gentler sense in silence stole; Nor had I heart to spoil the little plan Which cheered the spirit of the kind old man.


ALFRED TENNYSON—"IN MEMORIAM." Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

At length I spake

“No! here I must not stay; I'll rest to-night-to-morrow go my way.”

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

He did not urge me. Looking in my face, As he each feeling of the heart could trace, He prest my hand, and prayed I might be blest,Where'er I went, that Heaven would give me rest.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no .lore;

Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

The silent night has past into the prime Of day—to thoughtful souls a solemn time. For man has wakened from his nightly death, And shut up sense to morning's life and breath, He sees go out in heaven the stars that kept Their glorious watch while he, unconscious, slept,Feels God was round him while he knew it notIs awed, then meets the world-and God's forgot. So may I not forget thee, holy Power! Be to me ever as at this calm hour.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

The tree tops now are glittering in the sun: Away! 'Tis time my journey was begun.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Why should I stay, when all I loved are filed, Strange to the living, knowing but the dead;

A homeless wanderer through my early home; Gone childhood's joy, and not a joy to come! Το

pass each cottage, and to have it tell, Here did my mother, here a playmate dwell; To think upon that lost one's girlish bloom, And see that sickly smile, and mark her doom!It haunts me now-her dim and wildered brain. I would not look upon that eye again!

Let me go, rather, where I shall not find Aught that my former self will bring to mind. These old, familiar things, where'er I tread, Are round me like the mansions of the dead. No! wide and foreign lands shall be iry range, That suits the lonely soul, where all is strange.

Blaze on the hearth, and warm the pictured wall!

How blest he names, in love's familiar tone, The kind, fair friend, by nature marked his own. And, in the waveless mirror of his mind, Views the fleet years of pleasure left behind, Since when her empire o'er his heart beganSince first he called her his before the holy man!

Trim the gray taper in his rustic dome, And light the wintry paradise of home; And let the half-uncurtained window hail Some wayworn man benighted in the vale! Now, while the moaning night-wind rages high, As sweep the shot-stars down the troubled sky, While fiery hosts in heaven's wide circle play, And bathe in lurid light the Milky-way; Safe from the storm, the meteor, and the shower, Some pleasing page shall charm the solemn hout; With pathos shall command, with wit beguile, A generous tear of anguish or a smile!

Then for the dashing sea, the broad full sail! And fare thee well, my own green, quiet vale.


LORD LYTTON. There is no death! the stars go down

To rise upon some fairer shore; And bright in Heaven's jewelled crown

They shine forevermore.

There is no death! the dust we tread

Shall change beneath the Summer showers, To golden grain or mellow fruit,

Or rainbow-tinted flowers.


The granite rocks disorganized

To feed the hungry moss they bear; The forest trees drink daily life

From out the viewless air.


THOMAS CAMPBELL,"PLEASURES OF BOPE." Thy pencil traces on the lover's thought Some cottage-home, from towns and toil remote, Where love and lore may claim alternate hours, With peace embosomed in Idalian bowers! Remote from:busy life's bewildered way, O'er all his heart shall Taste and Beauty sway! Free on the sunny slope, or winding shore, With hermit-steps to wander and adore. There shall be love, when genial morn appears, Like pensive Beauty smiling in her tears, To watch the brightening roses of the sky, And muse on nature with a poet's eye! And when the sun's last splendor lights the deep, The woods and waves, and murmuring winds asleep, When fairy harps the Hesperian planet hail, And the lone cuckoo sighs along the vale, His path shall be where streamy mountains swell Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell; Where mouldering piles and forests intervene, Mingling with darker tints the living green; No circling hills his ravished eye to bound, Heaven, earth, and ocean blazing all around!

The moon is up—the watch tower dimly burns And down the vale his sober step returns; But pauses oft, as winding rocks convey The still sweet fall of music far away; And oft he lingers from his home awhile, To watch the dying notes—and start, and smile!

Let winter come! let polar spirits sweep The darkening world, and tempest-troubled deep! Though boundless snows the withered heath deform, And the dim sun scarce wanders through the storm, Yet shall the smile of social love repay, With mental light, the melancholy day! And, when its short and sullen noon is o'er, The ice-chained waters slumbering on the shore, How bright the fagots in his little hall

There is no death! the leaves may fali,

The flowers may fade and pass away; They only wait, through wintry hours,

The coming of the May.

There is no death! an angel form

Walks o'er the earth with silent tread; He bears our best-loved things away

And then we call them “ dead.”

He leaves our hearts all desolate;

He plucks our fairest, sweetest flowers; Transplanted into bliss, they now

Adorn immortal bowers.

For where he sees a smile too bright,

Or heart too pure for taint of vice, He bears it to that world of light,

To dwell in Paradise.

The bird-like voice whose joyous tones

Made glad this scene of sin and strife,

Sings now the everlasting song

Amid the Tree of Life.

Though passed beyond our tear-dimmed sight,

'Tis but a larger life to gain; We feel their presence oft—the same,

Except in sin and pain.

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.
Costly thy habits as thy purse can buy,
But not expressed in fancy; rich, not gaudy:
For the apparel oft proclaims the man;
Neither a borrower, nor a lender be:
For loan oft loses both itself and friend;
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all,—to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.

And ever near us, though unseen,

The dear immortal spirits tread; For all the boundless universe

Is life-there is no dead!



All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in his nurse's arms: And then, the whining school-boy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then, the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then, the soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel; Seeking the bubule reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then, the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shanks; and his big, manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness, and mere oblivion: Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


J. G. HOLLAND. Laocoon! thou great embodiment Of human life and human history! Thou record of the past, thou prophecy Of the sad future, thou majestic voice, Pealing along the ages from old time! Thou wail of agonized humanity! There lives no thought in marble like to thee! Thou hast no kindred in the Vatican, But standest separate among the dreams Of old mythologies-alone-alone! The beautiful Apollo at thy side Is but a marble dream, and dreams are all The gods and goddesses and fauns and fates That populate these wondrous halls; but thou, Standing among them, liftest up thyself In majesty of meaning, till they sink Far from the sight, no more significant Than the poor toys of children. For thou art A voice from out the world's experience, Speaking of all the generations past To all the generations yet to come Of the long struggle, the sublime despair, The wild and weary agony of man!



BEN JONSON—"THE FOREST." Drink to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.



Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportioned thought his act.
Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar.
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in,
Bear it that thy opposer may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice:

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope that there

It could not withered be.
But thou thereon didst only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me;
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

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