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WANT OF DECISION.

GREAT deal of labor is lost to the world for the want of a little courage. Every day sends to their graves a number of obscure men, who have only remained in obscurity because their timidity has prevented them from making a first effort, and who, if they had only been induced to begin, would have in all probability gone great lengths in the career of fame. The fact is, that in doing anything in the world worth doing, we must not stand shivering on the bank, thinking of the cold and danger, but jump in, and scramble through as well as we can. It will not do to be perpetually calculating risks and adjusting nice chances; it did all very well before the flood, when a man could consult his friends upon an intended publication for a hundred and fifty years, and live to see its success for six or seven centuries afterward; but at present a man waits and doubts, and consults his brother, and uncles, and his particular friends, till one day he finds that he is sixty-five years of age, and that he has lost so much time in consulting first cousins and particular friends, that he has no more time to follow their advice. There is so little time for over-squeamishness at present, that the opportunity slips away. The very period of life at which a man chooses to venture, if ever, is so confined that it is no bad rule to preach up the necessity, in such instances, of a little violence done to the feelings, and efforts made in defiance of strict and sober calculations.

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ODE TO DUTY.

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Full oft, when in my heart was heard

Thy timely mandate, I deferred

The task imposed, from day to day;

But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul,

Or strong compunctions in me wrought,
I supplicate for thy control;

But in the quietness of thought;
Me this unchartered freedom tires;

I feel the weight of chance desires:

My hopes no more must change their name,

I long for a repose which ever is the same.

Stern lawgiver! yet thou dost wear
The Godhead's most benignant grace;
Nor know we anything so fair

As is the smile upon thy face;

Flowers laugh before thee on their beds;

And fragrance in thy footing treads;

Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong:

And the most ancient heavens, through thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful power!

I call thee; I myself commend
Unto thy guidance from this hour;
Oh! let my weakness have an end!
Give unto me, made lowly wise,
The spirit of self-sacrifice;
The confidence of reason give;

And, in the light of truth, thy bondman let me live!
WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

A

A GREAT LAWYER.

TRULY Great Lawyer is one of the highest products of civilization. He is a master of the science of human experience. He sells his clients the results of that experience, and is thus the merchant of wisdom. The labors of many generations of legislators and judges enrich his stores. His learning is sufficient to enable him to realize the comparative littleness of all human achievements. He has outlived the ambition of display before courts and juries. He loves justice, law, and peace. He has learned to bear criticism without irritation; censure without anger; and calumny without retaliation. He has learned how surely all schemes of evil bring disaster to those who support them; and that the granite shaft of a noble reputation cannot be destroyed by the poisoned breath of slander.

A Great Lawyer will not do a mean thing for money. He hates vice, and delights to stand forth a conquering champion of virtue. The good opinions of the just are precious in his esteem; but neither love of friends, nor fear of foes, can swerve him from the path of duty. He esteems his office of counselor as higher than political place or

scholastic distinction. He detests unnecessary litigation, and delights in averting danger, and restoring peace by wise counsel and skilful plans. The good works of the counselroom are sweeter to him than the glories of the forum. He proves that honesty is the best policy, and that peace pays both lawyer and client, better than controversy. In a legal contest, he will give his client the benefit of the best presentation of whatever points of fact or of law may be in his power; but he will neither pervert the law, nor falsify the facts to defeat an adversary. The motto of his battle-flag is: Fidelity to the law and the facts,-semper fidelis.

C. C. BONNEY.

LABOR.

AUSE not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come
o'er us;

Hark! how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into Heaven!
Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rosc-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.
"Labor is worship!"-the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!"—the wild-bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower;
From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!—the flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens:

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in
tune!

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill,
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides!
Labor is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth:
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round
thee!

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!
Look to yon pure Heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness-a clod!
Work-for some good, be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly;
Labor!-all labor is noble and holy!

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God!
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

ADVICE TO YOUNG MEN.

OUNG men, you are the architects of your own fortunes. Rely upon your own strength of body and soul. Take for your star self-reliance, faith, honesty, and industry. Inscribe on your banner, "Luck is a fool, pluck is a hero." Don't take too much advice-keep at your helm and steer your own ship, and remember that the great art of commanding is to take a fair share of the work. Don't practice too much humility. Think well of yourself. Strike out. Assume your own position. Put potatoes in your cart, over a rough road,

and small ones go to the bottom. Rise above the envious and the jealous. Fire above the mark you intend to hit. Energy, invincible determination, with a right motive, are the levers that move the world. Don't drink. Don't chew. Don't smoke. Don't swear. Don't deceive. Don't read trashy novels. Don't marry until you can support a wife. Be in earnest. Be self-reliant. Be generous. Be civil. Read the papers. Advertise your business. Make money and do good with it. Love your God and fellow-men. Love truth and virtue. Love your country,

and obey its laws. If this advice be implicitly followed by the young men of the country, the millennium is near at hand.

NOAH PORTER.

T

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

ELL me not, in mournful numbers,
66 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.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,

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TRIALS A TEST OF CHARACTER.

WAIN AIN are all the efforts of slander, permanently to injure the fame of a good man ! There is a cascade in a lovely Swiss valley which the fierce winds catch and scatter so soon as it pours over the summit of the rock, and for a season the continuity of the fall is broken, and you see nothing but a feathery wreath of apparently helpless spray; but if you look further down the consistency is recovered, and the Staubbach pours its rejoicing waters as if no breeze had blown at all. Nay, the blast which interrupts it only fans it into more marvelous loveliness, and makes it a shrine of beauty where all pilgrim footsteps travel. And so the blasts of calumny, howl they ever so fiercely over the good man's head, contribute to his juster appreciation and to his wider fame. What are circumstances,—I wonder, that they should hinder a true

man when his heart is set within him to do a right thing!

Let a man be firmly principled in his religion, he may travel from the tropics to the poles, it will never catch cold on the journey. Set him down in the desert, and just as the palm-tree thrusts its roots beneath the envious sand in search of sustenance, he will manage somehow to find living water there. Banish him to the dreariest Patmos you can find, he will get a grand Apocalypse among its barren crags. Thrust him into an inner prison, and make his feet fast in the stocks, the doxology will reverberate through the dungeon, making such melody within its walls of stone that the jailer shall relapse into a man, and the prisoners hearing it shall dream of freedom and of home.

WILLIAM MORLEY PUNSHON.

H

GRADATIM.

EAVEN is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we risc From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies, And we mount to its summit round by round.

I count this thing to be grandly true,

That a noble deed is a step toward God,
Lifting the soul from the common sod
To a purer air and a broader view.

We rise by the things that are under our feet;
By what we have mastered of good and gain,
By the pride deposed and passion slain,
And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet.

We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust,

When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.

We hope, we resolve, we aspire, we pray,
And we think that we mount the air on wings
Beyond the recall of sensual things,
While our feet still cling to the heavy clay.

Wings for the angels, but feet for men!

We borrow the wings to find the way—
We may hope, and resolve, and aspire, and pray,
But our feet must rise, or we fall again.

Only in dreams is a ladder thrown

From the weary earth to the sapphire walls;
But the dreams depart and the vision falls,
And the sleeper wakes on his pillow of stone.
Heaven is not reached at a single bound;

But we build the ladder by which we rise
From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies,
And we mount to its summit round by rouud.
JOSIAH GILBERT HOLLAND.

E liveth long who liveth well!
All other life is short and vain;
He liveth longest who can tell
Of living most for heavenly gain.
He liveth long who liveth well!
All else is being flung away;
He liveth longest who can tell

Of true things truly done each day.

Waste not thy being; back to Him
Who freely gave it, freely give;
Else is that being but a dream;

"Tis but to be, and not to live.

Be what thou seemest! live thy creed!
Hold up to earth the torch divine;

HOW TO LIVE.

Be what thou prayest to be made;
Let the great Master's steps be thine.
Fill up each hour with what will last;
Buy up the moments as they go;
The life above, when this is past,
Is the ripe fruit of life below.

Sow truth, if thou the truth wouldst reap:
Who sows the false shall reap the vain;
Erect and sound thy conscience keep;
From hollow words and deeds refrain.

Sow love, and taste its fruitage pure;
Sow peace, and reap its harvests bright;
Sow sunbeams on the rock and moor,
And find a harvest-home of light.

HORATIUS BONAR.

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