The summer winds revive no more leaves strewn o'er earth and
The sickle never more will reap the yellow garnered grain;
The rippling stream flows ever on, aye, tranquil, deep and still,
But never glideth back again to busy water-mill.
The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep and vast, “The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”
Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart and true,
For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing too;
Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy day,
For time will ne'er return sweet joys neglected, thrown away;
Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow broadcast-
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."
Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted by,
Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without a sigh;
Love that we might once have saved by a single kindly word,
Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, un-
Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past.”
Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of strength and will,
The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking water-mill;
Nor wait until to-morrow's light beams brightly on thy way,
For all that thou canst call thine own lies in the phrase "to-day;
Possessions, power, and blooming health, must all be lost at last-
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."
Oh! love thy God and fellow man, thyself consider last,
For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of the past;
Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede from view,
And heaven in all its glory shine where all is pure and true.
Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still the proverb deep and vast,
"The mill will never grind again with water that is past."
-D. C. McCallum.
DOT LAMBS VOT MARY HAF GOT.
Mary haf got a leetle lambs already;
Dose vool vas vite like shnow;
Und efery times dot Mary did vend oued,
Dot lambs vent also oued vid Mary.
Dot lambs did follow Mary von day of der school-house,
Vich vas obbosition to der rules of der schoolmaster,
Also, vich it dit caused dose schillen to schmile out loud,
Ven dey did saw dose lambs on der insides of der school-house.
Und zo dot schoolmaster did kick dot lambs quick oued,
Likevize, dot lambs dit loaf around on der outsides,
Und did shoo der flies mit his tail off patiently aboud,
Until Mary did come also from dot school-house oued.
Und den dot lambs did run right away quick to Mary,
Und dit make his het on Mary's arms,
Like he would say, "I dond vas schared,
Mary would keep from drouble ena how."
Vot vas der reason aboud it, of dot lambs und Mary?"
Dose schillen did ask it dot schoolmaster;
Yell, doand you know it, dot Mary lov dose lambs already, Dat schoolmaster did zaid.
Und zo, alzo, dot moral vas,
Boued Mary's lambs' relations;
Of you lofe dese like she lofe dose,
Dot lambs vas obligations.
MY TRUNDLE BED.
As I rummaged through the attic,
List'ning to the falling rain,
As it pattered on the shingles
And against the window pane;
Peeping over chests and boxes,
Which with dust were thickly spread;
Saw I in the farthest corner
What was once my trundle bed.
So I drew it from the recess,
Where it had remained so long,
Hearing all the while the music
Of my mother's voice in song;
As she sung in sweetest accents,
What I since have often read-
"Hush, my dear, lie still and slumber,
Holy angels guard thy bed."
As I listen'd, recollections,
That I thought had been forgot,
Came with all the gush of memory,
Rushing, thronging to the spot;
And I wandered back to childhood,
To those merry days of yore,
When I knelt beside my mother,
By this bed upon the floor.
Then it was with hands so gently
Placed upon my infant head,
That she taught my lips to utter
Carefully the words she said;
Never can they be forgotten,
Deep are they in mem'ry riven-
"Hallowed be thy name, O Father!
Father! thou who art in heaven."
Years have passed, and that dear mother
Long has moldered 'neath the sod,
And I trust her sainted spirit
Revels in the home of God:
But that scene at summer twilight
Never has from memory fled,
And it comes in all its freshness
When I see my trundle bed.
This she taught me, then she told me
Of its import, great and deep-
After which I learned to utter
"Now I lay me down to sleep; "
Then it was with hands uplifted,
And in accents soft and mild,
That my mother asked-" Our Father!
Father! do thou bless my child!"
OH! WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE
PROUD?
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-fleeting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
Man passeth from life to his rest in the grave.
The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
And the young and the old, and the low and the high
Shall molder to dust and together shall lie.
The infant a mother attended and loved;
The mother that infant's affection who proved;
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,—
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.
The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who loved her and praised
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.
The hand of the king that the scepter hath borne;
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn;
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depth of the grave.
The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap;
The herdsman who climbed with his goats up the steep;
The beggar who wandered in search of his bread,
Have faded away like the grass that we tread.
The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven;
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven;
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.
So the multitude goes like the flowers or the weed
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.
For we are the same our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, and view the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.
The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers would shrink;
To the life we are clinging they also would cling;
But it speeds for us all, like a bird on the wing.
They loved, but the story we can not unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.
Thy died, aye! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwelling a transient abode,
Meet the things that they met on their pilgrimage road.
Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
We mingle together in sunshine and rain;
And the smiles and the tears, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.
'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath,
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death,
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,-
Oh! why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
CATO'S SOLILOQUY ON IMMORTALITY.
Cato sitting in a thoughtful posture, with Plato's book on the Immortality of the Soul in his hand, and a drawn sword on the table by him.
It must be so.-Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread, and inward horror,
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
"Tis the divinity that stirs within us;
'Tis heaven itself, that points out a hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity!-thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Through what variety of untried being,
Through what new scenes and changes must we pass
The wide, the unbounded prospect lies before me;
But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If there's a Power above us,-
And that there is, all Nature cries aloud
Through all her works, he must delight in virtue⚫
And that which he delights in must be happy.
But when? or where? This world was made for Cæsar.
I'm weary of conjectures, this must end them.
[Laying his hand on his sword.]
Thus am I doubly armed. My death and life,
My bane and antidote, are both before me.
This in a moment brings me to my end;
But this informs me I shall never die.
The soul, secure in her existence, smiles
At the drawn dagger, and defies its point.
The stars shall fade away, the sun himself
Grow dim with age, and Nature sink in years;
But thou shalt flourish in immortal youth,
Unhurt amid the war of elements,
The wreck of matter, and the crush of worlds.
SPOOPENDYKE'S BURGLARS.
"Say, my dear," ejaculated Mr. Spoopendyke, sit ting bolt upright in bed with a sudden jerk; "say, my dear, wake up! I hear burglars in the house."
"Who? what burglar?" demanded Mrs. Spoopen
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