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ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL. — Leigh Hunt.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase !)
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
THE VIOLET-GIRL.— Mllnes.
When Fancy will continually rehearse
Home yestern eve I wearily returned, Though bright my morning mood and shcrt my way,
But sad experience, in one moment earned, Can crush the heaped enjoyments of the day.
Passing the corner of a populous street,
There her small commerce, in the chill March weather,
She_plied with accents miserably mild;
It was a frightful thought to set together
Those blooming blossoms and that fading child: — Those luxuries and largess of the earth,
To me that odorous purple ministers
Think, after all this lapse of hungry hours
Rest on your woodland banks and wither there,
FROM ELEONORA. — Dryden.
As precious gums are not for lasting fire,
230 THE DESERTED HOITSE.
She vanished, we can scarcely say she died;
For but a now did heaven and earth divide:
She passed serenely with a single breath f
This moment perfect health, the next was death:
One sigh did her eternal bliss assure;
So little penance needs, when souls are almost pure.
As gentle dreams our waking thoughts pursue;
Or, one dream passed, we slide into a new;
So close they follow, such wild order keep,
We think ourselves awake, and are asleep:
So softly death succeeded life in her:
She did but dream of heaven, and she was there.
THE DESERTED HOUSE. — Tennyson.
Life and thought have gone away,
Side by side,
Careless tenants they!
Close the door, the shutters close,
Come away! for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stayed with us!
A PSALM OF LIFE. — Longfellow.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
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 further than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating
In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life,
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints, that perhaps another,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Let us, then, be up and doing,
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Where the remote Bermudas ride,
"What should we do but sing His praise,