The poor man toils for daily bread; By him the rich are clothed and fed, Yet life's to them a greater dread, Or idle pest, Their downy couch too oft a bed Of sleepless rest.

How many a life's an idle waste, Its destined glory seems disgraced, Its vile possessor has defaced The man divine, That not a single mark is traced Of G.o.d's design.

Man's but a child, a restless boy, His life a game, the world his toy, He strives for something to enjoy Unjoy'd before, Tho' vicious tastes and pa.s.sions cloy He longs for more.

The l.u.s.t for gold, the love of fame, The baser pa.s.sions oft inflame, And blindly masks the honest name Of moral worth, When life exceeds no higher aim Than this vile earth.

Our souls the golden G.o.d inspires, And feeds the life-destroying fires, Until the fevered heart desires With selfish greed, More than it actually requires For nature's need.

Life's hardest ills its spirit braves, O'er mountain-crags and ocean-waves, Then make ourselves the worst of slaves, A slave to self, To satisfy the thirst that craves For yellow pelf.

The golden wand with magic art Throws out the power to charm the heart, But ah, we feel its bitter smart When selfish greed Has robb'd from life that better part We so much need.

Alas, when gold absorbs our cares Life's wheels get dry, the axle wears, And heavier grows the load it bears, And faster driven, Its very dust defiles the prayers We send to heaven.

Life's chariot wheels revolve with speed, Yet faster still we urge our steed, And scarcely slack the reins to feed Or ease its breath, The journey seems but short indeed, When closed in death.

We haste it on with worldly care, Oppressive toil, and meagre fare, While sin and self-indulgence wear Our chariot wheels Increasing still the load they bear, With countless ills.

How discontented life appears, By every wind its compa.s.s veers, Our hopes are tarnish'd by the fears Of fancied ill, Even tho' the sun of Fortune cheers, We grumble still.

But why complain for everything That gives our life a random sting; Altho' we shift our tether-string To please our will, We'll always find the change will bring Both good and ill.

Then why should we contract our sight When life turns down the side that's bright The blast that blows us ills to-night, With cankering sorrow.

May cheer the clouds which shade the light That shines to-morrow.

'Tis better then to be content, Altho' we are not worth a cent; Our precious hours when wisely spent Are still the best, For nature's ills are never sent To be a pest.

And let it never be our creed, That when we do an evil deed, To think that penance can succeed, To cancel sin; We pluck the fruit, but still the seed Remains within.

But may we daily strive to win That happy world which knows no sin, 'Tis on the heaven we form within Our bliss depends, Where life celestial shall begin, Which never ends.

INDIAN SUMMER.

While winter in the dreary North Lies crouching ready to leap forth, In "_Indian Summer_" doth appear The gentle seasons of the year.

As if they came to shed their bloom Around their excavated tomb, To hold their parting interview, And bid their native world adieu.

The leaves that linger on the trees Are smiling in the sunny breeze, And chanting forth with holy breath The mournful requiem of their death.

The desert-fields, tho' bleak and bare, Seem lovely through the sun-lit air; The very shades are glowing bright Beneath the golden mellow light.

Rejoicing in their freedom still, On cultured field and pastur'd hill, The cattle crops the fading gra.s.s, And bless the moments as they pa.s.s.

The ploughman and his trusty team More happy and contented seem, From golden rays the furrow'd field A golden harvest yet may yield.

From bough to bough in yonder wood The squirrel frisks in happy mood, While searching round in hopes to find That some few nuts are left behind.

The summer-birds that yearly fly To yonder Southern sunny sky, Are hovering round on lingering wing, And fancy 'tis returning Spring.

While these sweet hours are gliding by, How calmly smiles the solemn sky, With golden hues of radiance bright, As if it were the cream of light.

It seems as if an angel's wing Had wafted back the breath of Spring, To animate the ling'ring breath Of Autumn on the bed of death.

Or from the rays of heavenly dews Had gilt the earth in rainbow hues, And o'er the sky so gently flung The air that once o'er Eden hung.

'Tis but the calm before the storm; The flush of earth's consumptive form; The hopeful smile, the fever'd breath, Before the stern approach of death.

THE SHADOW OF THE HOUSEHOLD.

There is a sympathy in love We bear for those who mourn, Whose shadows of departed joys With every thought return.

'Tis hard to stem the stream of grief That floods the parents' heart When death unvails embosom'd hopes, And throws its fatal dart.

The nursling of a mother's love, That nestles on her breast, Is but a life, celestial gift, By G.o.d's own seal impress'd.

And when its prattling lips rejoice In innocent delight The parents' love and cherish'd hope, With tenfold power unite.

Antic.i.p.ated prospects rise From hope's enchanted dreams, Converting life's prospective skies From shade to sunny beams, But oft, alas, those fancied hopes Are in the bud destroy'd; The cherished gift is pluckt away And leaves a lonely void.

Its lovely form returns to earth, Its spirit soars to bliss; Tho' destin'd to a happy world It oft may visit this.

Perchance around the household hearth When prayer's sweet incense rise, It may return as messenger To waft it to the skies.

'Tis sweet to cherish such a thought, Even tho' it were untrue, That spirit-friends are hovering round Tho' absent from our view.

But, oh! such dreams however sweet, A solace to impart, Can never fill the vacant seat, Nor yet the parents' heart.

The silent toys, the empty clothes, Those vestiges of death; Are full of mournful memories, Which spring from every breath, The active form the smiling face, In every thought appear; The prattling voice so cheering once Still lingers in the ear.

The future casts a shadow now, And hopes give place to grief, And all these things so pleasing once Can give no real relief.

'Tis only from a heavenly source That happiness can flow; There only can the heart procure A balm for every woe.

Then ye who mourn your absent ones, Those gifts by nature given, Remember tho' 'tis loss to you, 'Tis gain to Christ in Heaven, But still the wounded bosom bleeds, And cankers with its grief, For things have not their former charms To lend the soul relief.

There is no solid base on earth, On which our hopes are sure; The Rock of Heaven alone can make Our faith and hope secure.

This life is full of varied ills, With pain in every breath; And everything, however pure, Contains the germs of death.

How feeble is that vital thread, Which holds us to the earth; It may be snapt at h.o.a.ry age, Or at the infants' birth.

We see it break in every clime, At every age and hour, And still we live as if its strength, Could match our Maker's power.

The curse of sin like Cain's mark Is stampt on every brow; And to the idols of the earth We in submission bow.

Earth's things may seem as tangible To life's short-sighted eyes, But from the magic touch of death The cherish'd vision flies.