THE FUTURE. It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above, Did we know that the voices, now gentle and bland, Will forego the fond word and the whispering tone; Did we know that the eager and warm-pressing hand Will be joyfully forward in "casting the stone:" Did we know the affection engrossing our soul Oh! did we but know of the shadows so nigh, For if Hope is a star that may lead us astray, And "deceiveth the heart," as the aged ones preach; Yet 'twas Mercy that gave it, to beacon our way, Though its halo illumes where we never can reach. Though Friendship but flit, like a meteor gleam, Oh! 'tis well that the Future is hid from our sight, That we walk in the sunshine, nor dream of the cloud; That we cherish a flower, and think not of blight; That we dance on the loom that may weave us a shroud. It was good, it was kind, in the Wise One above, LIFE AND FORTUNE. OH! fools of fools, and mortal fools, For you had naught when you were born. Then pass Best load your chest with golden freight: From Paris even to Pampelune, Saving alone such simple boon As needful is for life below. Enough if fame your name adorn, When all things were for common use— Apples, all blithesome fruits of trees, Nuts, honey, and each gum and juice, Both man and woman too could please. Strife never vex'd these meals of old: Be patient, then, of heat and cold; Esteem not Fortune's favours sure; And of her gifts when you are shorn, With moderate grief your loss endure; For you had naught when you were born. L'ENVOY. If Fortune does you any spite Should even the coat be from you torn— Pray, blame her not-it is her right; For you had naught when you were born. -French of Chartier, 1386-1447. STRIKE! I'VE a liking for this "striking," If we only do it well; Firm, defiant, like a giant, Strike-and make the effort tell! One another, working brother! Help to make us great and wise. Work and wages, say the sages, My advice is, strike for prices Ever failing, now prevailing, In the heart, or in the head,Make no clamour-take the hammerDrive it down, and strike it dead! Much of chopping, lopping, propping, Ere the plummet from the summit, Take the measure of false pleasure; The foundation of Creation Lies in Truth's unerring laws; Every builder, painter, gilder, With the way his labour goes. Let him reason thus in season: -American. RALPH HOYT, 1806— |