The night sets in on a world of snow, Is heard on the distant hill: And the Norther! See, on the mountain-peak, In his breath how the old trees writhe and shriek! He drives from his nostrils the blinding snow, Such a night as this to be found abroad A farmer came from the village plain, And for hours he trod with might and main And his mare, a beautiful Morgan brown, In vain, with a neigh and a frenzied snort, While her master urged, till his breath grew short, But the snow was deep, and the tugs were tight; With his coat and the buffalo. He has given the last faint jerk of the rein, And the poor dog howls to the blast in vain For awhile he strives with a wistful cry, And whines when he takes no heed. The wind goes down and the storm is o'er,"Tis the hour of midnight, past; The old trees writhe and bend no more In the whirl of the rushing blast; But, cold and dead, by the hidden log In the wide snow desert, far and grand, With his cap on his head, and the reins in his hand; And the mare half seen through the crusted sleet, IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN.-A. A. HOPKINS. For of all sad words of tongue or pen The saddest are these-" It might have been."-WHITTIER. There's a dolorous cheat in the words so sweet, Or the sadness they tell, as my heart knows well, We may picture the vanishing yesterday 'Twas a glad, glad time since it left us here, And there's never a cause for a sigh or tear; It might have been worse, and the good we sought Might have proved with the saddest of sorrows fraught. When the poet had sung with his silver tongue Of a fanciful sorrow fleeting, Had he never a line for the joys divine That are ever our lives completing? We may breathe of the shadows our days have known Should our breathings forever the shades bemoan; Should we sigh when we tell of the dim twilight? There might have been darkness of darkest night, And we might have been left in the gloom to grope, With never a gleam from the star of hope. In the struggle and strife of this wearing life, When we sail our bark over stormy waves There are troubles and tears in the round of years, And the laughter outringing so clear and glad, There were wonderful dreams with their glad'ning gleams There are wearying ways in the long to-days, That are part of our path of duty; And the way might have brightened with blossoms sweet, WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN? 'Way back from the echoing ages comes that sad and mournful strain, "it might have been." What might have been? Who sorrows to-night as they look backward and wish life had been different? Who mourns over some early folly and borrows trouble day after day from those unhappy words? Is it you, child of the world? Is it you, lone wanderer? Is there, I ask, a land of " might have been "? If so, where can it be found? I have often heard of it, but I never succeeded in ascertaining its precise situation. Somewhere in the past, no doubt. I really should like to visit such a land. What a multitude of “mights" must lie there together, what aspirations, what noble deeds never destined to have been performed! Yet from whitened lips comes the whisper, "It might have been." No, dear hearers, it could not be, because you, or some one else, would not allow it. Year by year we hear the words, day after day; they have been the subject of many a discourse and essay. We hear and read them, wondering who indulges in the " might have been" delusion, instead of striving with the present and saying," it shall be." It is useless to mourn over the past, for it does not brighten it, and the moments thus wasted will in future cause more thoughts as to what "might have been." It is good for every heart to commune with self to a certain extent, but when hours are spent in useless repining it ceases to be beneficial. Many, thinking they have failed in nearly every great task they wished to accomplish, will also think it is useless to undertake anything more. "It might have been," if perseverance had not been lacking, but as it was, it could never have been. Let us Let Let not such thoughts possess dominion over us. have a fairy picture of what is to be, drawn in gorgeous colors; let us spare neither time, pains, pencil, nor paint. our hearts be in the work, and with unfaltering trust look upon the map of the future, perceiving the destined goal we are to reach, after much labor. Turn not to the right or left ; look not behind us lest we become mere drones. Leave the land of “might have been" for weary ones to people; as for us, we must build a city in the land of To Be. A city to at tract strangers, where beauties of mind shall not be forgotten in dress beauty; where life shall not be devoted entirely to self and sensual gratification; where love shall erect a fortress and defend our city from intruders. And how shall love deal with enemies? It shall, by its kind teachings and gentle influence, win them to our cause. Every day we shall witness the increase of numbers, and with light hearts and pleasant countenances move among our little band, distributing peace and good will. My land is the land of To Be. If Away with past regrets, for if my present opportunities are improved I shall have enough to occupy my mind. we mourn for the past, we shall waste valuable time, and the future will find us with drooping heads mourning over these wasted moments. Let not "it might have been" be inscribed over our tombstone when we die, to prove that our life was a failure. Rather let it be, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant: enter thou upon the heritage of the just." THE LOST HEIR.-THOMAS HOOD. "Oh where, and oh where Is my bonnie laddie gone?"-OLD SONG. One day, as I was going by That part of Holborn christened High, Bedaubed with grease and mud. She turned her east, she turned her west, At last her frenzy seemed to reach As wild as ocean birds, Or female Ranter moved to preach, * O Lord! oh, dear, my heart will break, I shall go stick stark staring wild! Has ever a one seen anything about the streets like a crying lost-looking child? |