All the gold we leave behind us
When we turn to dust again
(Though our avarice may blind us),
We have gathered quite in vain;
Since we neither can direct it,

By the winds of fortune tossed,
Nor in other worlds expect it:

What we hoarded, we have lost.

(Seed of pity wisely sown), What we gave in self-negation, We may safely call our own; For the treasure freely given

Is the treasure that we hoard, Since the angels keep in Heaven What is lent unto the Lord!

THE OLD MAN'S MOTTO

BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE

"Give me a motto!" said a youth

To one whom years had rendered wise; "Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth, That briefest syllables comprise;

Some word of warning or of cheer
To grave upon my signet here.

"And, reverend father," said the boy,

"Since life, they say, is ever made A mingled web of grief and joy;

Since cares may come and pleasures fade,― Pray, let the motto have a range

Of meaning matching every change."

"Sooth!" said the sire, "methinks you ask
A labor something over-nice,

That well a finer brain might task.
What think you, lad, of this device
(Older than I, though I am gray),
"T is simple, 'This will pass away'?

"When wafted on by Fortune's breeze, In endless peace thou seem'st to glide, Prepare betimes for rougher seas,

And check the boast of foolish pride; Though smiling joy is thine to-day, Remember, "This will pass away!'

"When all the sky is draped in black,
And, beaten by tempestuous gales,
Thy shuddering ship seems all a-wrack,
Then trim again thy tattered sails;
To grim Despair be not a prey;
Bethink thee, "This will pass away!'

"Thus, O my son, be not o'er-proud,

Nor yet cast down; judge thou aright; When skies are clear, expect the cloud; In darkness, wait the coming light; Whatever be thy fate to-day,

Remember, 'This will pass away!""

THE SUPERFLUOUS MAN

BY JOHN GODFREY SAXE

"It is ascertained by inspection of the registers of many countries, that the uniform proportion of male to female births is as 21 to 20: accordingly, in respect to marriage, every 21st man is naturally superfluous."-TREATISE ON POPULATION.

I long have been puzzled to guess,
And so I have frequently said,
What the reason could really be

That I never have happened to wed;
But now it is perfectly clear,
I am under a natural ban;
The girls are already assigned,-
And I'm a superfluous man!

Those clever statistical chaps
Declare the numerical run
Of women and men in the world,
Is Twenty to Twenty-and-one;
And hence in the pairing, you see,
Since wooing and wedding began,
For every connubial score,

They've got a superfluous man!

By twenties and twenties they go,
And giddily rush to their fate,
For none of the number, of course,
Can fail of a conjugal mate;
But while they are yielding in scores
To Nature's inflexible plan,
There's never a woman for me,-

For I'm a superfluous man!

It is n't that I am a churl,
To solitude over-inclined;
It isn't that I am at fault

In morals or manner or mind;
Then what is the reason, you ask,
I'm still with the bachelor-clan?
I merely was numbered amiss,-
And I'm a superfluous man!

It isn't that I am in want
Of personal beauty or grace,
For many a man with a wife
Is uglier far in the face;
Indeed, among elegant men

I fancy myself in the van;
But what is the value of that,
When I'm a superfluous man?

Although I am fond of the girls,

For aught I could ever discern The tender emotion I feel

Is one that they never return; "T is idle to quarrel with fate, For, struggle as hard as I can, They're mated already, you know,— And I'm a superfluous man!

No wonder I grumble at times,
With women so pretty and plenty,

To know that I never was born

To figure as one of the Twenty;

But yet, when the average lot
With critical vision I scan,
I think it may be for the best
That I'm a superfluous man!

BREATHES THERE THE MAN

BY SIR WALTER SCOTT

[From "The Lay of the Last Minstrel," Canto VI.]

Breathes there the man with soul so dead Who never to himself hath said,

This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burned, As home his footsteps he hath turned

From wandering on a foreign strand? If such there breathe, go, mark him well; For him no minstrel raptures swell; High though his titles, proud his name, Boundless his wealth as wish can claim, Despite those titles, power, and pelf, The wretch, concentred all in self, Living, shall forfeit fair renown, And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored, and unsung.