Many a beauteous flower decays,
Though we tend it e'er so much;
Something secret on it preys,
Which no human aid can touch.
So in many a loving breast
Lies some canker-grief concealed,
That, if touched, is more oppressed,
Left unto itself is healed!
Oft, unknowingly, the tongue
Touches on a chord so aching
That a word or accent wrong
Pains the heart almost to breaking.
Many a tear of wounded pride,
Many a fault of human blindness,
Has been soothed or turned aside
By a quiet voice of kindness.
Time to me this truth hath taught,
"T is a truth that's worth revealing:
More offend from want of thought
Than from want of feeling.
LIFE is a burden to every one's shoulder;
None may escape from its troubles and care;
Miss it in youth and 't will come when we're older,
And fit us as close as the garments we wear.
Sorrow comes into our home uninvited,
Robbing our heart of its treasures of song;
Lovers grow cold and our friendships are slighted,
Yet somehow or other we worry along.
Midst the sweet blossoms that smile on our faces
Grow the rank weeds that would poison and blight;
And e'en in the midst of earth's beautiful places
There's always a something that is n't just right.
Yet oft from the rock we may pick a gay flower,
And drink from a spring in a desolate waste;
They come to the heart as a heavenly dower,
And nought is so sweet to the eye or the taste.
Every-day toil is an every-day blessing,
Though poverty's cottage and crust we may share; Weak is the back on which burdens are pressing,
But stout is the heart which is strengthened by prayer.
Somehow or other the pathway grows brighter
Just when we mourned there was none to befriend;
Hope in the heart makes the burden seem lighter,
And somehow or other we get to the end.
HERE is my hand,
O weary one
A smile for love defiled,
A tear for hope reviled,
A brother's faith for her whom men are taught to shun.
What men may do or say
I care not now;
To me thou art a ray
Of sunlight-borne away
By too sweet dreams of earth, whose shadows haunt thy brow.
The visions I recall.
Thy girlish face,
Thy voice like music's fall,
Thy tender glances, all
Thy nature like the heart of life's impassioned grace.
And now thine eyes are filled
With tears of shame!
Where passion burned and thrilled,
Death's angels have instilled
The anguish and remorse that lips with horror frame.
The world's taunts hotly burn
Upon thy cheek;
Thy pitiless sisters turn
From thy sad eyes, and spurn
Thy prayers-like cries of sin unworthy to bespeak.
Yet art thou lost indeed?
O stricken soul!
Must life forever bleed
For one embittered deed?
Shall all the golden days be useless to console?
Is charity then dead,
And pity blind?
O child! but few have read
Thy heart. Yet I have shed
Tears scorching as thine own for Christ's love undivined.
GEO. EDWARD MONTGOMERY.
"Is life worth living? Well, to tell you true, It scarcely is, if all men were like you.' "9
BRIGHT-FACED maiden, bright-souled maiden,
What is this that I must hear?
Is thy heart with sorrow laden,
Is thine eye dimmed with a tear?
Can it be that lips so sweetly
Rounded to be kindly kissed
Could be twisted indiscreetly
To the vile word Pessimist?
Not for thine own ills thou weepest;
Softly feathered is thy nest;
When thou wakest, when thou sleepest,
Thou art fortuned with the best.
But thy sisters and thy brothers
Pierced with many a woful smart,
Dying children, wailing mothers,
Fret thy nerve and stab thy heart.
In the country, in the city,
Godless deeds, a loveless list,
Stir thy blood and move thy pity,
And thou art a PESSIMIST.
Storms and wars and tribulations,
Fevered passions' reinless tide,
With insane hallucinations
Mingled, travel far and wide.
Can there be an Eye inspecting
Things so tumbling in pell-mell,
With a cool control directing
Such a hotbed, such a hell?
Nay, sweet maid, but think more slowly;
Though this thing and that be sad,
'Tis a logic most unholy
That the gross of things is bad;
'Tis a trick of melancholy,
Tainting life with death's alloy;
Or in wisdom, or in folly,
Nature still delights in joy.
Dost thou hear of starving sinners,
Nine and ten, or ninety-nine?
Many thousands eat good dinners,
Many hundreds quaff good wine.
Hast thou seen a score of cripples?
Equal legs are not uncommon;
If you know one fool that tipples,
Thousands drink not-man and woman;
Tell me if you know how many
Murders happen in the town?
One a year, perhaps, if any;
Should that weigh your heart quite down?
No doubt, if you read the papers,
You will find a strange hotch-potch Doting dreams, delirious capers,
Many a blunder, blot, and blotch; Bags of windy speculation,
Babblement of small and great, Cheating, swindling, peculation,
Squabblement of Church and State;
Miners blown up, humbugs shown up,
Beaten wives, insulted brides,
Raving preachers, witless teachers,
Lunatics and suicides;
Drains and cesspools, faintings, fevers,
Poisoned cats and stolen collies,
Simple women, gay deceivers,
Every sort and size of follies;
Wandering M. P.'s brainless babble,
Deputations, meetings, dinners,
Riots of the lawless rabble,
Purple sins of West End sinners;
Driving, dicing, drinking, dancing,
Spirit rapping, ghostly stuff;
Bubble schemes and deft financing,
When the shares are blown enough.
All this is true; when men cut capers
That make the people talk or stare,
To-morrow when you ope the papers
You 're sure to find their antics there.
But you and I and all our neighbors
Meanwhile, in pure and peaceful ways,
With link on link of fruitful labors,
Draw out our chain of happy days.
See things as they are; be sober;
Balance well life's loss and gain;
If to-day be chill October,
Summer suns will come again.
Are bleak winds forever sighing?
Do dark clouds forever lower?
Are your friends all dead and dying?
All your sweetness turned to sour?
Great men, no doubt, have sometimes small ways,
But a horse is not an ass,
And a black snake is not always
Lurking in the soft green grass. Don't be hasty, gentle lady,
In this whirl of diverse things Keep your footing, and with steady Poise control your equal wings.
All things can't to all be pleasant;
I love bitter, you love sweet;
Some faint when a cut is present;
Rats find babies' cheeks a treat.
If all tiny things were tall things,
If all petty things were grand,
Where would greatness be, when all things
On one common level stand?
Do you think the winged breezes,
Fraught with healthy ventilation,
When a tender infant sneezes
Should retreat with trepidation?
When dry Earth to Heaven is calling
For soft rain and freshening dew,
Shall the rain refrain from falling
Lest my lady wet her shoe?
Fools still rush to rash conclusions,
And the mole-eyed minion, man,
Talks of troubles and confusions,
When he sees not half the plan.
Spare to blame and fear to cavil,
With short leave dismiss your pain,
Let no fretful fancies revel
In the sanctum of your brain.
Use no magnifying-glasses
To change molehills into mountains,
Nor on every ill that passes
Pour hot tears from bitter fountains.
Trust in God and know your duty;
Some good things are in your power;
Every day will bring its booty
From the labor of the hour.
Never reck what fools are prating,
Work and wait, let sorrow lie;
“Live and love; have done with hating,"
Goethe says and so say I.
IF the world seems cool to you,
Kindle fires to warm it!
Let their comfort hide from you
Winters that deform it.
Hearts as frozen as your own
To that radiance gather;
You will soon forget to moan,
"Ah! the cheerless weather!"
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