Then enter, boys; cheerly, boys, enter and rest;
You know how we live, boys, and die in the West!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

ELL me not, in mournful numbers,

TEL

"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 gōal;'
"Dust thou art, to dust returnèst,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrōw
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
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad fieid of battle,
In the bivouac3 of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be à herō in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, act in the living Present!

Heart within, and GŎD ō'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of Time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
LEARN TO LABOR AND TO WAIT.

H. W. LONGfellow.

W

WHAT MIGHT BE DONE.

HAT might be done if men were wise

What glorious deeds, my suffering brother—

Would they unite, in love and right,

And cease their scorn of one another!

Oppression's heart might be imbued

With kindling drops of loving-kindness; And Knowledge pōur, from shōre to shōre, Light on the eyes of mental blindness.

All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs,

All vice and crime, might die together; And wine and corn, to each man born,

Be free as warmth in summer weather.

The meanèst wretch that ever trod,

The deepèst sunk in guilt and sorrow, Might stand erect, in self-respect,

And share the teeming world to-morrow.

What might be done? This might be done,

And more than this, my suffering brother—

More than the tongue e'er said or sung,

If men were wise and loved each other.

CHARLES MACKAY.

1 Was (woz).

THE NORMAN BARON.

N his chamber, weak and dying,

Loud, without, the tempest thundered,
And the castle-turret shook.

In this fight was Death the gainer,
Spite of vassal' and retainer,"
And the land his sires had plundered,

Written in the Doomsday-book."

By his bed a monk was seated,
Who in humble voice repeated
Many a prayer and päter-noster,"
From the missals on his knee;
And, amid the tempest pealing,
Sounds of bells came faintly stealing-
Bells, that from the neighboring kloster
Rang for the Nativity.10

In the hall the serf" and vassal

Held that night their Christmas wassail;12
Many ǎ carol, old and saintly,

Sang the minstrels13 and the waits :"

'Baron (bår' on), a degree of nobility next to a viscount above and a baronet below, being the lowest in the English House of Peers.

'Castle-turret (kås' sl-tůr' rêt). 'Vassal (vås' sal), one who holds lands of a superior, and owes fealty to him; a slave.

Retain'er, a dependent; a hanger-on; one kept in service.

* Dooms'day-Book, a book made by order of William the Conqueror, in which the extent and limits of the lands of England, their proprietors, tenures, value, &c., were registered. 'Pater-noster (på'ter-nos'ter), the Lord's Prayer.

.

And so loud these Saxon gleemen
Sang to slaves the songs of freemen,
That the storm was heard but faintly,
Knocking at the castle-gates:

Till at length the lays they chanted1
Reached the chamber terror-haunted,'
Where the monk, with accents holy,
Whispered at the baron's ear:
Tears upon his eyelids glistened,3
As he paused awhile and listened,*
And the dying Baron slowly

Turned his weary head to hear.

"Wassail for the kingly stranger,
Born and cradled in à manger!
King, like David; priest, like Aaron,
Christ is born to set us free!"
And the lightning showed the sainted
Figures on the casement painted,
And exclaimed the shuddering Bǎron,
"MISERERE, DOMINE !"

In that hour of deep contrition,
He beheld, with clearer vision,
Through all outward show and fashion,

Justice, the Avenger, rise.

All the pomp of earth had vanished,
Falsehood and deceit were banished,
Reason spake more loud than passion,
And the truth wore no disguise.

Every vassal of his banner,

Every serf born to his mănor,

All those wronged and wretched creatures
By his hand were freed again :

1 Chanted (chânt'ed). See Note 4,

p. 20.

2 Haunted (hånt'ed).

3 Glistened (glis'snd).

'Listened (lis'snd).

'Miserere Domine (miz e rè're dom' i ně), Have mercy, Master, or Lord.

And, as on the sacred missal
He recorded their dismissal,
Death relaxed his iron features,

And the monk replied, " AMEN!"
Many centuries have been numbered
Since in death the Baron slumbered
By the convent's sculptured portal,

Mingling with the common dust:
But the good deed, through the ages
Living in historic pages,
Brighter grows and gleams immortal,
Unconsumed by moth or rust.

H. W. LONGFELLOW.

THOSE EVENING BELLS.

HOSE evening bells! those evening bells!

THow many a tale their music tells

Of youth, and home, and that sweet time
When last I heard their soothing chime!

Those joyous hours are passed away,
And many ǎ heart that then was gay,
Within the tomb now darkly dwells,
And hears no more those evening bells.

And so 'twill be when I am gone—
That tuneful peal will still ring on;
While other bards shall walk these dells,
And sing your praise, sweet evening bells.

THOMAS MOORE.

THE

THE BLISSFUL DAY.

HE day returns, my bosom burns, The blissful day we twa did meet ; Though winter wild in tempest toiled, Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet.