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.

FALLEN.

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. EDGAR MONTGOMERY.

PESSIMISM.

"Is life worth living? Well, to tell you true, It scarcely is, if all men were like you."

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.

Blackwood.

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 wingèd 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.

DO SOMETHING.

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!"

If the world's a "vale of tears,"
Smile till rainbows span it;
Breathe the love that life endears
Clear from clouds to fan it.
Of your gladness lend a gleam
Unto souls that shiver;

Show them how dark sorrow's stream

Blends with hope's bright river.

LUCY LARCOM.

THE GOLDEN SIDE.

THERE'S many a rest on the road of life,
If we only would stop to take it;
And many a tone from the better land,
If the querulous heart would wake it.
To the sunny soul that is full of hope,
And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth,
The grass is green and the flowers are bright,
Though the wintry storm prevaileth.

Better to hope though the clouds hang low,
And to keep the eyes still lifted;

For the sweet blue sky will soon peep through,
When the ominous clouds are rifted.
There was never a night without a day,
Nor an evening without a morning;
And the darkest hour, the proverb goes,
Is the hour before the dawning.

There is many a gem in the path of life,
Which we pass in our idle pleasure,
That is richer far than the jewelled crown
Or the miser's hoarded treasure;
It may be the love of a little child,
Or the mother's prayer to Heaven,
Or only a beggar's grateful thanks
For a cup of water given.

Better to weave in the web of life
A bright and golden filling,
And to do God's will with a ready heart,
And hands that are swift and willing,
Than to snap the delicate silver threads
Of our curious lives asunder,

And then Heav'n blame for the tangled ends,
And sit and grieve and wonder.