Of the bells, bells, bells To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, To the rolling of the bells- To the tolling of the bells, To the moaning and the groaning of the bells. EDGAR ALLAN POE. "SPEAK GENTLY." SPEAK gently! it is better far To rule by love than fear; Speak gently! love doth whisper low Speak gently to the little child! Teach it in accents soft and mild; Speak gently to the young for they Will have enough to bear; Pass through this life as best they may, "Tis full of anxious care. Speak gently to the aged one,— Speak gently, kindly to the poor, Speak gently to the erring-know They must have toiled in vain ; Perchance unkindness made them so: Oh, win them back again! Speak gently! He who gave His life Speak gently! 'tis a little thing, ANONYMOUS. TRUST IN GOD AND DO THE RIGHT. COURAGE, brother, do not stumble, Let the road be rough and dreary, Perish "policy" and cunning! Perish all that fears the light! Trust no party, sect, or faction; Trust no "leaders" in the fight; But in every word and action "Trust in God, and do the right!" Trust no lovely forms of passion: Simple rule and safest guiding, "Trust in God, and do the right!" Some will hate thee, some will love thee; NORMAN MACLEOD. CLEON AND I. CLEON hath a million acres, Ne'er a one have I; Cleon dwelleth in a palace, In a cottage I; Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, Not a penny I: Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon and not I. Cleon, true, possesseth acres, But the landscape I; Half the charms to me it yieldeth Money cannot buy; Cleon harbours sloth and dulness, He in velvet, I in fustian Richer man am I. Cleon is a slave to grandeur, Need of none have I; Wealth-surrounded, care-environ'd, Cleon fears to die; Death may come, he'll find me ready— Cleon sees no charm in nature, In a daisy I; Cleon hears no anthems singing In the sea and sky; Nature sings to me for ever, Earnest listener I; State for state, with all attendants, Who would change? Not I. MACKAY. A PORTION OF GRAY'S BARD. RUIN seize thee, ruthless king! Confusion on thy banners wait; Though fanned by conquest's crimson wing, They mock the air with idle state. |