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The stranger seemed (to judge him by his dress)
One of mean sort, a dweller with distress,

Or some poor pilgrim; but the steps he took
Belied it with strange greatness; and his look
Opened a page in a tremendous book.

He wore a cowl, from under which there shone,
Full on the guest, and on the guest alone,
A face, not of this earth, half veiled in gloom
And radiance, but with eyes like lamps of doom,
Which, ever as they came, before them sent
Rebuke, and staggering, and astonishment,
With sense of change, and worse of change to be,
Sore sighing, and extreme anxiety,

And feebleness, and faintness, and moist brow,
The past a scoff, the future crying" Now!"
All that makes wet the pores, and lifts the hair;
All that makes dying vehemence despair,
Knowing it must be dragged it knows not where.

The excess of fear and anguish, which had tied
The courtier's tongue, now loosed it, and he cried,
"O royal master! Sage! Lord of the Ring,
I cannot bear the horror of this thing:

Help with thy mighty art. Wish me, I pray,
On the remotest mountain of Cathay."


Solomon wished, and the man vanished. Straight Up comes the terror, with his orbs of fate.

"Solomon," with a lofty voice said he,

"How came that man here, wasting time with thee? I was to fetch him, ere the close of day, From the remotest mountain of Cathay.”

Solomon said, bowing him to the ground, "Angel of Death, there will the man be found."




SAINT PHILIP NERI, as old readings say,

Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And being ever courteously inclined

To give young folks a sober turn of mind,
He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.

St. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome ?
Y. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.

St. And, when you are one, what do you intend?
Y. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.

St. Suppose it so- -what have you next in view?
Y. That I may get to be a canon, too.

St. Well; and how then?


Why, then, for aught I know,

I may be made a bishop.

What then?


Be it so

Why, cardinal's a high degree

And yet my lot it possibly may be.
St. Suppose it was, what then?

Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
St. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?

Y. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,
As long as God shall please, then I must die.

St. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best
But wish, and hope, and may be all the rest!
Take my advice-whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide;

Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,
Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal, and pope.



In the tempest of life when the wave and the gale
Are around and above, if thy footing should fail,
If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart,
"Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If the friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy and a tear for each woe,
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the vision which hope spreads in light to thine eye,
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft" to the sun that is never to set.

Should they who are dearest, the son of thy heart,
The wife of thy bosom, in sorrow depart,
"Look aloft" from the darkness and dust of the tomb,
To that soil where "affection is ever in bloom."

And, oh! when death comes in his terrors, to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart!



Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,
And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron's breast
The sparks fly to and fro,

While answering to the hammer's ring,
And fire's intenser glow-

Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,
Whose hard hands guide the plough,
Who bend beneath the summer sun,
With burning cheek and brow—
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth
From olden time till now-

But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil
And labour all day through,
Remember it is harder still
To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who plough the sea's blue field,
Who ride the restless wave,
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel
There lies a yawning grave,

Around whose bark the wintry winds

Like fiends of fury rave-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labour long hours through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheeks
The hectic glow is bright,

Whose mental toil wears out the day
And half the weary night;

Who labour for the souls of men,

Champions of truth and right—
Although ye feel your toil is hard,
Even with this glorious view,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! all who labour, all who strive,

Ye wield a lofty power;

Do with your might, do with your strength,

Fill every golden hour!

The glorious privilege to do,

Is man's most noble dower.

Oh! to your birthright and yourselves,
To your own souls, be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs,
Who have no work to do.



WHAT is that, mother?—

The Lark, my child,

The morn has just looked out, and smiled,
When he starts from his humble, grassy nest,
And is up and away with the dew on his breast

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