Nothing but leaves; memory weaves
No veil to screen the past:
As we retrace our weary way,
Counting each lost and misspent day—
We find, sadly, at last,
Nothing but leaves!
And shall we meet the Master so,
Bearing our withered leaves?
The Saviour looks for perfect fruit,-
We stand before him, humbled, mute;
Waiting the words he breathes,-
"Nothing but leaves ?" *
THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.-GOLDSMITH.
BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way,
With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,
There, in his noisy mansion skilled to rule,
The village master taught his little school.
A man severe he was, and stern to view;
I knew him well, and every truant knew:
Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace
The day's disasters in his morning face;
Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee,
At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;
Full well the busy whisper, circling round,
Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.
Yet he was kind, or if severe in aught,
The love he bore to learning was his fault.
The village all declared how much he knew;
"T was certain he could write and cipher too;
* He found nothing thereon but leaves.-Matt. chap. xxi. v. 19.
Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,
And e'en the story ran-that he could gauge:
In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,
For e'en though vanquished he could argue still;
While words of learnéd length, and thundering sound,
Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around;
And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,
That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot
Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.
KEEP IT BEFORE THE PEOPLE.-DUGANNE.
KEEP it before the people!
That Earth was made for Man!
That flowers were strown,
And fruits were grown,
To bless, and never to ban
That sun and rain,
And corn and grain,
Are yours and mine, my brother!
Free gifts from heaven,
And freely given
To one as well as another!
Keep it before the people!
That man is the image of God!
His limbs or soul
Ye may not control
With shackle or shame or rod!
We may not be sold
For silver or gold,
Neither you nor I, my brother!
For Freedom was given
By God, from heaven,
To one as well as another!
And the heavy night hung dark
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moored their bark
On the wild New England shore.
Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted, came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame:
Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;
They shook the depth of the desert's gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.
Amid the storm they sang,
And the stars heard, and the sea;
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.
The ocean eagle soared
From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared: This was their welcome home.
There were men with hoary hair
Amid that pilgrim band,
Why have they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?
There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow, serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.
What sought they thus, afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine !
Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstained what there they found
Freedom to worship God!
LABOR IS WORSHIP.-OSGOOD.
PAUSE not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!
Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.
"Labor is worship!"-the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!"-the wild bee is ringing:
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing
Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower;
From the small insect, the rich coral bower;
Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.
Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ;
Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!
Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!
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