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With a careless hand o'er the earth they sow,
And the fields are ripening where'er they go;

What shall the harvest be?
Sown in darkness, or sown in light,-
Sown in weakness, or sown in might,-
Sown in meekness, or sown in wrath, -
In the broad work-field, or the shadowy path,-

SURE will the harvest be!

LIFE'S BATTLE.-AN ORATION.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream;
For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.
“Life is real! life is earnest!.

And the grave is not its goal.
'Dust thou art, to dust returnest,'

Was not spoken of the soul.” The course of things below is not a relentless fate. Man's will is unconquerable, and by it he is maker and lord of his destiny; by it, relying on Eternal Power and his own fiery energies, he can build a monument of greatness reaching to the very heavens; by it, allowing those faculties with which he is so richly endowed, to lie dormant in him, and following the low instincts of nature, he may plunge to the very depths of perdition.

Yet it was never a part of the Divine plan that he should go down in ignorance and guilt to the darkness of eternal night; existence never was given him that he might degrade it; else why these high and holy aspirations,—these longings after immortality,—these shrinkings from that which is unseen and unknown which pervade the soul even when clothed in the habiliments of vice?

“Mighty of heart and mighty of mind," pure as the angels and only a little lower was he when in the morn of creation the beauties of Eden first burst upon his wondering vision,

ere the serpent had accomplished his deadly work an'l the tree of knowledge yielded its fatal gift." · Mighty of heart and mighty of mind,” impure and fallen was he when the

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Naming swords of the angel sentries forever barred his approach to the tree of life, “ Lest,” said the great I AM,“ since he has become as one of us to discern good and evil, he put forth his hand and take of its fruit and live forever."

In that bitter hour, when the gates of Paradise were closed against him, and the earth became accursed for his sake, when the fiat of Jehovah went furth condemning him to toil and pain and death, whatever else was taken, the privilege of glorifying anew his ruined manhood, of doing noble and true things, and vindicating himself as a God-made man was not denied him.

There is still within him the upspringing of lofty sentiment which contributes to his elevation, and though there are obstacles to be surmounted and difficulties to be vanquished, yet with truth for his watchword, and leaning on his own noble purposes and indefatigable exertions, he may crown his brow with imperishable honors. He may never wear the warrior's crimson wreath, the poet's chaplet of bays, or the statesman's laurels; though no grand universal truth may at his bidding stand confessed to the world,--though it may never be his to bring to a successful issue a great political revolution-to be the founder of a republic whose name shall be a“ distinguished star in the constellation of nations," --yea, more, though his name may never be heard beyond the narrow limits of his own neighborhood, yet is his mission none the less a high and holy one.

In the moral and physical world, not only the field of battle, but also the consecrated cause of truth and virtue calls for champions, and the field for doing good is “white unto the harvest ;” and if he enlists in the ranks, and his spirit faints not, he may write his name among the stars of heaven.

Then trust thyself, O man! “Every heart vibrates to that iron string.” Accept thy place in the ranks and throw thyself boldly into the battle tumult of the world. The chief of men is he who stands in the van, fronting the peril which frightens all others back.

Set thy ideal standard high; go on from strength to strength, ever upward, onward; aspire to noble acts, heroic work, and true heart-utterance, and thy deeds shall rise up melodiously in a boundless, everlasting Psalm of Triumph!

SONG OF SARATOGA.-John G. SAIE.

“Pray what do they do at the Springs ?”

The question is easy to ask : But to answer it fully, my dear,

Were rather a serious task. And yet, in a bantering way,

As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, I'll venture a bit of a song,

To tell what they do at the Springs.

Imprimis, my darling, they drink

The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavor is none of the best,

And the odor exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know,

With wholesome, medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink,

And that's what they do at the Springs !

Then with appetites keen as a knife,

They hasten to breakfast, or dine; The latter precisely at three,

The former from seven till nine. Ye gods! what a rustle and rush,

When the eloquent dinner-bell rings ! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat,

And that's what they do at the Springs!

Now they stroll in the beautiful walks,

Or loll in the shade of the trees; Where many a whisper is heard

That never is heard by the breeze;
And hands are commingled with hands,

Regardless of conjugal rings:
And they flirt, and they Airt, and they flirt, -

And that's what they do at the Springs !

The drawing-rooms now are ablaze,

And music is shrieking away; Terpsichore governs the hour,

And fashion was never so gay! An arm round a tapering waist,

How closely and fondly it clings ! do they waltz, and they waltz, and they walts

And that's what they do at the Springs!

In short, -as it goes in the world,

They eat, and they drink, and they sleep;
They talk, and they walk, and they woo;

They sigh, and they laugh, and they weep;
They read, and they ride, and they dance;

(With other remarkable things:)
They pray, and they play, and they PAY, -

And that's what they do at the Springs !

AGONY EELLS.- Allie WELLINGTON.

It was formerly a custom in the Roman Catholic church to commence a rol. emn toll of bells,-called " Agony-bells,"--when any une connected with the church was supposed to be dying.

Somebody's dying to-night! Alas!

Hear ye those agony-bells,
Solemnly, mournfully break on the air,-

The saddest of all sad knells;
From yon high tower they downward float,

Like a voice from the får-off heaven.
To some soul, 'tis the last of earth,
And its tenderest ties are being riven,-

Somebody's dying!

Is it childhood, lovely and pure,

Whose spirit is cleaving this midnight air?
Is it youth, in the flush of hope,

With its dreams of the future radiant and fair?
Or is it manhood, strong and brave,

That's fallen in th' noontide strife?
Or age bowed down with th' weight of years, –
Treading the twilight paths of life?

Somebody's dying!

It may be a mother--a father-a child

A sister-a brother-a maiden fair;
It may be a homeless, friendless one,

A stranger, far from love's tender care!
Whoe'er it be,- was the solemn call

Welcomed ? or greeted with startling fears?
Was their mission accomplished,--their life-work done?
Are they angel-voices the spirit hears?

Somebody's dying!

There are other deaths,-there are other graves,

Than those spread o'er by the grassy mound;
There are other mourners than sable clad,

And sepulchres else than on earth are found.
There are souls that to darkness and death go down,

Whose corridors echo reproachful knells;
There are friendships that languish and hopes that expire,
And hearts that e'er list their own agony-bells, –

Forever dying!

AS “OLD GILES” SAW IT.-D. S. Cohen.

Ay, lad, look on yon ocean, now, you see it's calm and still ;

You wouldn't think its waves could rise,
An' seem to meet the peaceful skies;

An' take a ship of giant size,
To dash it at their will.

I've lived near ocean all my life, nigh on to eighty years ;

I've seen the cruel billows leap
O'er many a strugglin' ship, an' heap

Their deadly weight, an' to the deep
Drag earthly hopes an’ fears.

I've seen staunch oak to splinters struck, an’seen the drown

in' fight;
Their cry for help has reached my ear,
When willin' help could not get near;

An' then I've hid my eyes in fear,-
They've vanished from my sight.

There's one sight as I seed, lad, and I wish I never had;

I've lived nigh on to eighty years,
Thro' all my share o' woe an' tears,

But never did these eyes an' ears
Meet anythin' so sad.

It were a couple come down here, near 'bout the close a'

Spring;
Wi' babes-a sturdy chap o' three,
An' girl, as many months might be ;-

It shows how wise 'tis folks can't see
What comin' moments bring.

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