Part 32 (2/2)

I wors.h.i.+p not at its cold shrine, Nor fear the terror of its frown, It cannot chain my spirit down, The soaring of my soul confine.

For ah! we parted at the tomb, Where buried hopes of youthful years, Embalm'd in sorrow's bitter tears, Lie mouldering within the gloom.

Ah! few and dim the lights that gleam Around me in life's dismal maze, Scarce seen amid the somber haze That shrouds me in life's dismal dream.

I never drank the wine of bliss, Made sweeter by the wealth of joy; My cup is mix'd with griefs alloy, And I have tasted only this.

Life's problem oft to solve, I try, And hope I have not lived in vain, And borne this galling fetter chain Through all its years without a sigh.

Some tears, perhaps, I may have dried-- My own in sympathy I shed O'er joys and hopes of others dead, By sorrow's legions crucified.

Earthly joys, alas! are fleeting, Shadowy and evanescent, Scarce full orb'd before the crescent Tells us of their final setting.

And soon our starry dreams are wreck'd, And all our earthly hopes sublime Lie stranded on the sh.o.r.es of Time, In drapery of woe bedeck'd,

Yet I know 'tis vain repining;-- Though to-day the sky with sorrow May be overcast, to-morrow All the love-lights may be s.h.i.+ning, Made brighter by the long eclipse; And shadows of earth's dreary night, That shrouded from my spirit's sight, Life's glorious Apocalypse.

To tread this weary round of Toil Is not the whole of mortal life;-- There is an unseen inner strife, Where battling for the victor's spoil, The wrong contendeth with the right,-- Pa.s.sion and pride with gentleness Pity with sorrow and distress-- And faith with sin's deep with'ring blight.

And truth my spirit oft beguiles, While her dear face is wreath'd in smiles, By whisp'ring sweetly unto me; As thou hast measured, it shall be In justice meted out to thee, When thou hast reached the blissful isles Beyond the misty veil of Time; Thou'lt find a rest from earthly wars, And healing for thy earthly scars, Within that sweet supernal clime.

THE TURTLE'S SERMON.

An old and crafty terrapin, Who lately found his speech, Like many another simple lout, Concluded he could preach.

And so he waddled to the sh.o.r.e, And thus address'd his friends-- The bullfrogs and the snappers bold, About their latter ends.

And told them all how they must be Made into soup at last; And how the serpent sharp can see When last year's hide is cast.

And how the wary pickerel Enjoys the minnow sweet, Which he doth never fail to catch, When it goes out to skate;

And how the beaver builds his house Within his winter dam; And how the oyster lays its egg, And hatches out a clam;

And how the busy b.u.mble bee, Doth blow his little horn, Whene'er he goes in quest of food, Amid the standin' corn:

And how the gentle b.u.t.terfly Sings many a merry tune Because he's glad he has escaped From out the old coc.o.o.n;

And how the rabbit flies his kite, When he can find a string; And how the owl sits up all night, To hear the squirrel sing;

And many other curious things That did his hearers good,-- Of cats that did a swimmin' go And eels that chew'd the cud;

And toads that dance upon their ears When they a courtin' go; And moles that stand upon their heads, That they may see the show.

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