Life, at most, is a fleeting bubble, Gone with the puff of an angel's breath.

Why should the dim hereafter trouble Souls this side of the gates of death?

The crown is yours! Would you care to win it?

Plant a song in the hearts that sigh, And thus have heaven here this minute And not far-off in the by-and-by.

Find the soul's high place of beauty, Not in a man-made book of creeds, But where desire enn.o.bles duty And life is full of your kindly deeds.

The bliss is yours! Would you fain begin it?

Pave with love each golden mile, And thus have heaven here this minute And not far-off in the afterwhile.

--Nixon Waterman.

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy G.o.d's, and truth's.

--William Shakespeare.

Sweet are the uses of adversity; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

--William Shakespeare.

WORSHIP

But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowed roof With antique pillars ma.s.sy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

--John Milton.

Give us men!

Strong and stalwart ones: Men whom highest hope inspires, Men whom purest honor fires, Men who trample Self beneath them, Men who make their country wreathe them As her n.o.ble sons, Worthy of their sires, Men who never shame their mothers, Men who never fail their brothers; True, however false are others: Give us Men--I say again, Give us Men!

--Bishop of Exeter.

I will not doubt though all my ships at sea Come drifting home with broken masts and sails, I will believe the Hand which never fails, From seeming evil worketh good for me; And though I weep because those sails are tattered, Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered, "I trust in Thee."

The wounds I might have healed, The human sorrow and smart!

And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part.

But evil is wrought by want of thought As well as want of heart.

--Thomas Hood.

DON'T FEAR--G.o.d'S NEAR!

Feel glum? Keep mum.

Don't grumble. Be humble.

Trials cling? Just sing.

Can't sing? Just cling.

Don't fear--G.o.d's near!

Money goes--He knows.

Honor left--Not bereft.

Don't rust--Work! Trust!

--Ernest Bourner Allen.

A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead; In filling love's infinite store, A rose to the living is more, If graciously given before The hungering spirit is fled-- A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.

--Nixon Waterman.

Canst thou see no beauty nigh?

Cure thy dull, distempered eye.

Canst thou no sweet music hear?

Tune thy sad, discordant ear.

Earth has beauty everywhere If the eye that sees is fair.

Earth has music to delight If the ear is tuned aright.

--Nixon Waterman.

Anew we pledge ourselves to Thee, To follow where thy Truth shall lead; Afloat upon its boundless sea, Who sails with G.o.d is safe indeed.

O, though oft depressed and lonely All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died.

It was only a glad "Good morning,"

As she pa.s.sed along the way; But it spread the morning's glory Over the livelong day.

For the right against the wrong, For the weak against the strong, For the poor who've waited long, For the brighter age to be.

RECOMPENSE

The gifts that to our b.r.e.a.s.t.s we fold Are brightened by our losses.

The sweetest joys a heart can hold Grow up between its crosses.

And on life's pathway many a mile Is made more glad and cheery, Because, for just a little while, The way seemed dark and dreary.

--Nixon Waterman.

Wherever now a sorrow stands, 'Tis mine to heal His nail-torn hands.

In every lonely lane and street, 'Tis mine to wash His wounded feet-- 'Tis mine to roll away the stone And warm His heart against my own.