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Retribution.

Οψέ θεῶν ἀλέουσι μύλοι, ἀλέουσι δὲ λεπτά.

("The mills of the gods grind late, but they grind fine.")

GREEK POET.

THOUC

THE ABOVE PARAPHRASED.

HOUGH the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small:

Though with patience he stands waiting, with exactness

grinds he all.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW.

Careless seems the Great Avenger; history's pages but record

One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the

Word:

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne; But that scaffold sways the future, and behind the dim un

known

Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch above Hi,

own!

JAMES R. Lowell.

My Life is like the Summer Rose.

MY

Y life is like the summer rose
That opens to the morning sky,
But ere the shades of evening close,
Is scattered on the ground—to die !
Yet on the rose's humble bed
The sweetest dews of night are shed,
As if she wept the waste to see,-
But morn shall weep a tear for me!

My life is like the autumn leaf
That trembles in the moon's pale ray;
Its hold is frail,—its date is brief,
Restless and soon to pass away!
Yet ere that leaf shall fall and fade,
The parent tree will mourn its shade,
The winds bewail the leafless tree-
But none shall breathe a sigh for me!

My life is like the prints which feet
Have left on Tampa's desert strand,
Soon as the rising tide shall beat,
All trace will vanish from the sand;
Yet, as if grieving to efface

All vestige of the human race,

On that low shore loud moans the sea,
But none, alas! shall mourn for me!

RICHARD HENRY WIlde.

When I do Count the Clock.

HEN I do count the clock that tells the time

WHE

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls all silvered o'er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer's green, all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard;
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow;

And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence,
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.
SHAKESPEARE.

ON HIS BLINDNESS.

The Good Great Man.

OW seldom, friend, a good great man inherits

Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains!

It seems a story from the world of spirits

When any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merits that which he obtains.

For shame, my friend! renounce this idle strain !
What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain?
Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain ?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,

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The good great man? Three treasures-love, and light,
And calm thoughts, equable as infant's breath ;
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night—
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death?

SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

On His Blindness.

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

WHE

Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide-
"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied ?"

I fondly ask; but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best; his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

JOHN MILTON.

CY

To Cyriack Skinner.

'YRIACK, this three years' day, these eyes, though clear, To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot:
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man or woman, yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.

What supports me, dost thou ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask, Content, though blind, had I no better guide.

JOHN MILTON.

Virtue.

WEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright,

The bridal of the earth and sky!
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in the grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,

A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

LYCIDAS.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

GEORGE HERBERT.

Y

Lycidas.

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more,
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin, then, Sisters of the Sacred Well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse;

So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favor my destined urn,

And as he passes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud;

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,

Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the morn,
We drove à-field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,

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