THE VANITY OF WORLDLY
SCHEMES.

TO-MORROW, Lord, is thine!
Lodged in thy sovereign hand;
And if its sun arise and shine,
It shines by thy command.

The present moment flies,
And bears our life away;
Oh, make thy servants truly wise,
That they may live to-day!

Since on this winged hour
Eternity is hung,

Waken by thine almighty power
The aged and the young!

One thing demands our care:
Oh, be it still pursued ;

Lest, slighted once, the season fair
Should never be renewed.

1400.

GENTILESSE.

GEOFFREY CHAUCER, the first great poet on the long list of English writers, was born about the year 1340, and died in His poetry is written in an English that is unfami iar to present readers, but the difficulties it presents are easily surmounted. His fami iarity with the Scriptures, which were for the first time translated into English in 1380, by Wiclif, was very great, and his religious thoughts, like those of Shakespeare, are strewn through his writings. The idea expressed in the following lines, that virtue is not hereditary, and that Christ was the first father of gentility," is frequently repeated by Chaucer.

THE firste fadir and founder of gentilesse,'
What man desireth gentle for to be
Moste folowe his trace and alle his wittes
dresse 2

Vertu to sew, and vicis for to flee;

4

For unto vertu longeth dignitee,
And nought the revers, savely dare I deme,
Al were he' mitre, corone, or diademe.

The firste stoke was ful of rightwisnesse,
Trewe of his word, soboure, pitous and free,
Cleene of his gooste and lovid besynesse,
Ageynste the vice of slowthe, in honeste;
And but his heire love vertu as did he,
He nis not gentille though him riche seme,
Al were he mitre, corone, or diademe.

VIRTUE NOT HEREDITARY.

MICHAEL DRAYTON, one of the poets-laureate of England, was born in Warwickshire in 1563, and died in 1631. He is remembered as the author of " 'Poly-Olbion," a poetical description of the geography of England. The theme he here treats had been a favorite with the poet Chaucer.

THAT height and godlike purity of mind Resteth not still where titles most adorn: With any, not peculiarly confined

To names, and to be limited doth scorn: Man doth the most degenerate from kind,

Richest and poorest, both alike are born; And to be always pertinently good, Follows not still the greatness of our blood.

Pity it is, that to one virtuous man

That mark him lent. to gentry to advance, Which, first by noble industry he wan,

His baser issue after should enhance; And the rude slave not any good that can Such should thrust down by what is his by chance.

As had not he been first that him did raise, Ne'er had his great heir wrought his grandsire's praise.

You that but boast your ancestor's proud style, And the large stem whence your vain great

ness grew;

When you yourselves are ignorant and vile, Nor glorious thing dare actually pursue, That all good spirits would utterly exile, Doubting their worth should else discover

you,

Giving yourselves unto ignoble things, — Base, I proclaim you, though derived from kings.

Virtue, but poor, God in this earth doth place, 'Gainst this rude world to stand upon his right:

To suffer sad affliction and disgrace,

Not ceasing to pursue her with despite : Yet when of all she is accounted base,

And seeming in most miserable plight, Out of her power new life to her doth take: Least then dismayed, when all do her forsake. That is the man of an undaunted spirit,

For her dear sake that offereth him to die; For whom when him the world doth disinherit, Looketh upon it with a pleased eye; What's done for virtue thinking it doth merit, Daring the proudest menaces defy; More worth than life, howe'er the base world rate him,

Beloved of Heaven, although the world doth

hate him.

MICHAEL DRAYTON.

"IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN."

GEORGE ZABRISKIE GRAY is a clergyman of the Protestant Episcopal Church, and Dean of the Faculty of the Episcopal School of Theology in Cambridge, Mass. He is the author of a volume on the Children's Crusade. He was born in New York City, July 14, 1838.

LED by kindlier hand than ours,
We journey through this earthly scene,
And should not, in our weary hours,
Turn to regret what might have been.

And yet these hearts, when torn by pain,
Or wrung by disappointment keen,
Will seek relief from present cares
In thoughts of joys that might have been.

But let us still these wishes vain ;
We know not that of which we dream.
Our lives might have been sadder yet;
God only knows what might have been!

Forgive us, Lord, our little faith;
And help us all, from morn till e'en,
Still to believe that lot the best
Which is, not that which might have been.

And grant we may so pass the days
The cradle and the grave between,
That death's dark hour not darker be
For thoughts of what life might have been.

GEORGE ZABRISKIE GRAY, D. D.

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE. THE sacred tree midst the fair orchard grew; The Phoenix Truth did on it rest, And built his perfumed nest. That right Porphyrian tree which did true logick shew,

Each leaf did learned notions give, And the apples were demonstrative. So clear their color and divine, The very shade they cast did other lights outshine.

"Taste not," said God; "tis mine and Angels' meat;

A certain Death doth sit

Like an ill worm i' th' core of it.

Ye cannot know and live, nor live or know and eat."

Thus spoke God; yet man did go
Ignorantly, on to know;

Grew so more blind, and she

Who tempted him to this, grew yet more blind

than he.

The only science man by this did get,

Was but to know he nothing knew:
He straight his nakedness did view,
His ignorant poor estate, and was ashamed
of it.

Yet searches probabilities,
And rhetoric and fallacies,
And seeks by useless pride

With slight and withering leaves that nakedness to hide.

MISS MAY LOUISE RILEY was born in Brighton, a suburb of Rochester, N. Y., May 29, 1842. One of her earliest poems was published in 1867, with the title "If we knew.' She was married in 1872 to the Rev. Albert Smith, and now lives in Rochester.

GOD pity the wretched prisoners,
In their lonely cells to-day!
Whatever the sins that tripped them,
God pity them! still I say.

Only a strip of sunshine,
Cleft by rusty bars;

Only a patch of azure,
Only a cluster of stars;

Only a barren future,

To starve their hope upon;
Only stinging memories

Of a past that's better gone;

Only scorn from women,
Only hate from men,
Only remorse to whisper

Of a life that might have been.
Once they were little children,
And perhaps their unstained feet
Were led by a gentle mother

Toward the golden street;
Therefore, if in life's forest

They since have lost their way,
For the sake of her who loved them,
God pity them! still I say.

O mothers gone to heaven!

With earnest heart I ask

315

That your eyes may not look earthward On the failure of your task.

For even in those mansions

The choking tears would rise, Though the fairest hand in heaven Would wipe them from your eyes! And you, who judge so harshly,

Are you sure the stumbling-stone
That tripped the feet of others
Might not have bruised your own?

Are you sure the sad-faced angel
Who writes our errors down
Will ascribe to you more honor

Than him on whom you frown?

Or, if a steadier purpose

Unto your life is given;
A stronger will to conquer,
A smoother path to heaven;

If, when temptations meet you,
You crush them with a smile;
If you can chain pale passion
And keep your lips from guile;

Then bless the hand that crowned you,
Remembering, as you go,

'T was not your own endeavor

That shaped your nature so;

And sneer not at the weakness
Which made a brother fall,
For the hand that lifts the fallen,
God loves the best of all!

And pray for the wretched prisoners

All over the land to-day,

That a holy hand in pity

May wipe their guilt away.

MAY RILEY SMITH.

HE THAT BELIEVETH SHALL NOT

MAKE HASTE.

THE aloes grow upon the sand,

The aloes thirst with parching heat, Year after year they wait and stand, Lonely and calm, and front the beat Of desert winds, and still a sweet

And subtle voice thrills all their veins : "Great patience wins; it still remains, After a century of pains,

For you to bloom and be complete.

"I grow upon a thorny waste,

Hot noontide lies on all the way, And with its scorching breath makes haste, Each freshening dawn to burn and slay ; Yet patiently I bide and stay,

Knowing the secret of my fate.

The hour of bloom, dear Lord, I wait,
Come when it will, or soon or late,
A hundred years is but a day."

SUSAN COOlidge.

THE FREE MIND.

WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON was born at Newburyport, Mass., Dec. 10, 1805, and died at New York City, May 24, 1879. His life was marked by philanthropy, and especially by aggressive warfare upon negro slavery. Beginning in 1829, he labored unremittingly in this cause, until slavery was abolished in the United States by constitutional amendment in 1865, when he retired into private life; but as long as he lived his pen and voice were still active in behalf of various reformatory movements. The following lines were written in prison in 1839.

HIGH walls and huge the body may confine, And iron grates obstruct the prisoner's gaze, And massive bolts may baffle his design,

And vigilant keepers watch his devious

ways:

Yet scorns the immortal mind this base control!

No chains can bind it, and no cell enclose: Swifter than light, it flies from pole to pole,

And in a flash from earth to heaven it goes! It leaps from mount to mount; from vale to vale

It wanders, plucking honeyed fruits and flowers;

It visits home, to hear the fireside tale,

Or, in sweet converse, pass the joyous hours.

'Tis up before the sun, roaming afar, And, in its watches, wearies every star!

WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON.

A PARABLE FOR HAPPY HEARTS.

ON the earth a Flower grew,
From the Sun its being drew;
Day by day this royal friend
Sent down blessings without end;
Day by day the Flower held up,
To be filled with light, its cup;
And the great Sun ne'er forgot
In the universe this dot.

And the Sun said to the ground: "Take my light and bear it round,