Part 114 (1/2)

Life is real! Life is earnest!

And 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 m.u.f.fled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle!

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 G.o.d o'erhead! {441}

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, A forlorn and s.h.i.+pwrecked brother, 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.

--_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_.

By permission of Houghton. Mifflin & Co.

{442}

WHILE THEE I SEEK, PROTECTING POWER

While Thee I seek, protecting Power, Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled.

Thy love the power of thought bestowed, To Thee my thoughts would soar, Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed, That mercy I adore.

In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see; Each blessing to my soul more dear, Because conferred by Thee.

In every joy that crowns my days, In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer.

When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet Thy will.

My lifted eye, without a tear, The lowering storm shall see; My steadfast heart shall know no fear, That heart will rest on Thee.

--_Helen Maria Williams_.

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[Ill.u.s.tration]

MADONNA DELLA TENDA By Raphael (1483-1520)

”Think ye the notes of holy song On Milton's tuneful ear have died?

Think ye that Raphael's angel throng Has vanished from his side?