66.

O RIGHTEOUS doom, that they who make
Pleasure their only end,

Ord'ring the whole life for its sake,
Miss that whereto they tend.

While they who bid stern duty lead,
Content to follow, they,

Of duty only taking heed,
Find pleasure by the way.

R. C. Trench.

As o'er his furrowed fields, which lie
Beneath a coldly dropping sky,
Yet chill with winter's melted snow,
The husbandman goes forth to sow :

Thus, freedom! on the bitter blast,
The ventures of thy seed we cast,
And trust to warmer sun and rain
To swell the germ and fill the grain.

It may not be our lot to wield
The sickle in the ripened field;
Nor ours to hear, on summer eves,
The reaper's song among the sheaves :

Yet, where our duty's task is wrought In unison with God's great thought, The near and future blend in one, And whatsoe'er is willed, is done.

Whittier.

68.

So should we live that every hour
May die as dies the natural flower,
A self-reviving thing of power;

That every thought and every deed
May hold within itself the seed
Of future good and future meed;

Esteeming sorrow, whose employ
Is to develop, not destroy,
Far better than a barren joy.

Houghton.

69.

THE heart it hath its own estate;
The mind it hath its wealth untold;
It needs not fortune to be great,
While there's a coin surpassing gold.

No matter which way fortune leans,
Wealth makes not happiness secure ;
A little mind hath little means,
A narrow heart is always poor.

'Tis not the house that honour makes, True honour is a thing divine;

It is the mind precedence takes,
It is the spirit makes the shrine.

Swain.

I HEAR it often in the dark,
I hear it in the light,--

Where is the voice that comes to me
With such a quiet night?

It seems but echo to my thought,
And yet beyond the stars!

It seems a heart-beat in a bush,
And yet the planet jars!

My inmost soul there lies A spirit sky that opens with Those voices of surprise.

Thy heaven is mine, my very soul! Thy words are sweet and strong; They fill my inward silences

With music and with song.

They send me challenges to right,
And loud rebuke my ill;

They ring my bells of victory;

They breathe my "Peace be still!"

They ever seem to say:

Why seek me so all day?

My child,

Now journey inward to thyself,
And listen by the way."

W. C. Gannett.