The genius may invent some plan To ease the laborer's toil, Or add facility for man To cultivate the soil.

Contentment never did aspire To elevate mankind, It never raised the standard higher Of science or of mind.

'Tis Discontent that gains the prize In every useful art; Although it brings us tearful eyes And restlessness of heart;

But then it has a sweet reward-- Progression is the fruit, But some this sweetness have abhorred For others have the boot.

For he who blesses most mankind, Himself is seldom blessed, And he whose deeds should be enshrined Will seldom be caressed.

Yet, let our banner ne'er be furled, Our lives in quiet spent; For 'tis a truth that all the world Still thrives on Discontent.

OUR POLITICS.

"The purification of politics is an iridescent dream."

U. S. Senator, John J. Ingalls, Kansas.

"Purification of politics Is an iridescent dream,"

Is the Ingalls way of saying that Corruption's power's supreme.

Have the people lost their honesty, Has the Nation sunk so low, That partisan strife can blind our eyes Till we know not friend from foe?

If such be true, this fair land of ours Must fail to mature the Hope That blossomed fair on Liberty's tree, But in impotence must grope.

Beautiful land! G.o.d's own favored land!

Thy sons must united be, Statesmen should now hold the public helm, Throw factions into the sea,

Teach politicians with all their schemes, The people yet are supreme; That Augean stables--politics-- May be cleansed by ballot's streams.

SUNSET.

Softly the tints of expiring day Tinge th' vaults of Hesperian heaven, Leaving a trace of the sun's mellow ray To escort the shadows of even.

All of the gates of Phoebus are drawn, Yet his splendor has left to sight A trail of enchantment to linger till dawn, To charm the still hours of the night.

Scenes of such cloud-land often reveal A grandeur that augments the soul; Heaven has no beauties it seeks to conceal, No secrets inscribed on its scroll.

Through the earth for an age we may roam, And through s.p.a.ce our vision may fly, Yet no pleasure is like that at home When we gaze on a G.o.d-painted sky.

When we think of the forces displayed To prepare for a cloud-scene at even, Of the elements deftly arrayed That a gorgeous effect may be given,

Of the mists and the winds and the light, Of the blendings that art cannot teach, Of the mysteries hidden from sight That our knowledge would gladly reach,

Of the order, the purpose, design, In the pictures that hang in the sky, We know that the hand is divine That arranged all their brilliancy,

Then our faith lifts the curtain that hides The Spirit that ordered the plan, And a.s.sures us He ever abides To encourage and elevate man.

At sunset my spirit shall sing Of the beauties the elements yield, Let my heart then its off'ring bring To the Artist of sky and of field.

When my soul from its dwelling of clay, Shall escape to that unknown sphere, May it be at the close of the day, When the glories of sunset appear.

Soothingly, sweetly comes unto me The thought that my soul may rest, In a land whose glory shall be Like cloud-scenes that glow in the west.

SELFISHNESS.

Who lives for self alone should be Placed in some lonely, hollow tree, And left to toad and bat and owl-- To creatures man considers foul-- Where he shall be perpetual prey For frightful ogres night and day.

A narrow soul that lives for self, Should stand on some old musty shelf, Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng, And listen only to the song Of filing saw and creaky mill, And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.

Who lives for self is not afraid Of meanest thing G.o.d ever made, For he himself is that same thing; Though peasant, plebian, or king, He thwarts the purpose of G.o.d's plan, He lacks the impulse of a man.

No soul enwrapped within itself, Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf, Can serve its Maker or mankind As n.o.bly as was erst designed By the Great Architect above, Whose being is Unselfish Love.

RETROSPECTION.

I sit when the shadows are stealing The light of departing day, And think of the scenes and pleasures I enjoyed in my childhood's play.

I can picture them all so plainly, They seemed not a day gone by, I recall the fields and garden, The lake and the clear blue sky.

I can see the bright water flowing At the foot of the sloping hill, The dam that impeded its progress, The toy-wheel of water-mill.

I can trace every line and feature Of trees and the shadows they cast, The lanes, the rocks, and orchards, That on journey to school were past.

I can close my eyes for an instant And draw a scene to my mind, That seems like a photo-engraving, As true, as complete, as defined.

Time's flight has not dim'd or shaded One outline the scenes gave then, Though the years that have intervened, Are nearly two score and ten.

There's a central, attractive figure, With heart unselfish and warm, That always appears in the picture-- 'Tis my mother's benignant form.

I can see her in all the beauty And glow of a mother's pride, As she patiently watched and labored For her children at her side.

How sweet to my soul is the power To so clearly these scenes portray; I pray that to life's latest hour This bliss be not taken away.