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On the northern accents that dwell on thy tongue.
To me they are music, to me they recall
The things long hidden by memory's pall!
Take this long curl of yellow hair,
And give it my father, and teil him my prayer,
My dying prayer, was for him."

A long and a weary way I had conie;
But I stopped, methought, by mine own sweet home;
I stood by the hearth, and my father sat there,
With a pale, thin face, and snow white hair!
The Bible lay open upon his knee,
But he closed the book to welcome me.
He led me next where my mother lay,
And together we knelt by her grave to pray,
And heard a hymn it was heaven to hear,
For it echoed one of niy young days dear.
This dream has waked feelings long, long since fled,
And hopes which I deemed in my heart were dead,
-We have not spoken, but still I have hung

Next day Upon the deck a coffin lay; They raised it up, and like a dirge The heavy gale swept o'er the surge; The corpse was cast to the wind and waveThe convict had found in the green sea a grave.

-Letitia Elizabeth Landon.

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Ability and Opportunity. THESE are the conditions of success. Give a man power and a field in which to use it,

and he must accomplish something. He may not do and become all that he desires and dreams of, but his life cannot be a failure. I never hear men complaining of the want of ability. The most unsuccessful think that they could do great things if they only had the chance. Somehow or other something or somebody has always been in the way. Providence has hedged them in so that they could not carry out their plans. They knew just how to get rich, but they lacked opportunity.

Sit down by one who thus complains, and ask him to tell you the story of his life. Before he gets half through he will give you occasion to ask him, “Why didn't you do so at that time? Why didn't you stick to that piece of land and improve it, or to that business and develop it? Is not the present owner of that property rich ? Is not the man who took up the business you abandoned successful ?" He will probably reply : “Yes, that was an opportunity ; but I did not think so then. I saw it when it was too late." In telling his story he will probably say, of his own accord, half a dozen times : “If I had known how things were going to turn I might have done as well as Mr. A. That farm of his was offered to me. I knew that it was a good one, and cheap, but I knew that it would require a great deal of hard work to get it cleared and fenced, to plant trees, vines, etc., and to secure water for irrigation. I did not like to undertake it. I am sorry now that I didn't. It was one of my opportunities.'

The truth is, God gives to all of us ability and opportunities enough to enable us to be moderately successful. If we fail, in ninety-five cases out of a hundred it is our own fault. We neglect to improve the talents with which our Creator endowed us, or we failed to enter the door that he opened for us. A man cannot expect that his whole life shall be made up of opportunities, that they will meet him at regular intervals as he goes on, like milestones by the roadside. Usually he has one or two, and if he neglects them he is like a man who takes the wrong road where several meet. The further he goes the worse he fares.

A man's opportunity usually has some relation to his ability. It is an opening for a man of his talents and means. It is an opening for him to use what he has, faithfully and to the utmost. It requires toil, self-denial and faith. If he says: “I want a better opportunity than that; I am worthy of a higher position than it offers;' or if he says, “I wont work as hard and economize as closely as that opportunity demands," he may, in after years, see the folly of his pride and indolence.

There are young men all over the land who want to get rich. They want to begin, not at the bottom of the ladder, but half way up. They want somebody to give them a lift, or carry them up in a balloon, so that they can avoid the early and arduous struggles of the majority of those who have been successful. No wonder that such men fail, and then complain of Providence. Grumbling is usually a miserable expedient that people resort to to drown the reproaches of conscience. They know that they have been foolish, but they try to persuade themselves that they have been unfortunate.

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Too calm to suffer pain, too loving to forget,
And reaching down a succoring hand
To where the sufferers are,
To lift them to the tranquil heights afar.
Whereon Time's conquerors stand.
And when the precious hours are done,
How sweet at set of sun
To gather up the fair laborious day!
To have struck some blow for right
With tongue or pen;
To have smoothed the path to light
For wandering men;
To have chased some fiend of Ill away;
A little backward to have thrust
The instant powers of Drink and Lust;
To have borne down Giant Despair;
To have dealt a blow at Care !
How sweet to light again the glow
Of warmer fires than youth's, tho' all the blood runs

slow!

Oh! is there any joy,
Of all that come to girl or boy
Or manhood's calmer weal and ease,
To vie with these ?
Here is some fitting profit day by day,
Which none can render less;
Some glorious gain Fate cannot take away,
Nor Time depress.
Oh, brother, fainting on your road!
Poor sister, whom the righteous shun!
There comes for you, ere life and strength be done,
An arm to bear your load.
A feeble body, maybe bent, and old,
But bearing 'midst the chills of age
A deeper glow than youth's; a nobler rage;
A calm heart, yet not cold.
A man or woman, withered perhaps, or bent,
To whom pursuit of gold or fame
Is as a fire grown cold, an empty name,
Whom thoughts of Love no more allure,
Who in a self-made nunnery dwell,
A cloister calm and pure,
A beatific peace greater than tongue can tell.

Has worked its work sublime;
To have touched, with infinite gropings dim,
Nature's extremest outward rim;
To have found some weed or shell unknown before;
To advance Thought's infinite march a foot pace

more;
To make or to declare laws just and sage;
These are the joys of Age.
Or by the evening hearth, in the old chair,
With children's children at our knees,
So like, yet so unlike the little ones of old-
Some little lad with curls of gold,
Some little maid demurely fair,
To sit, girt round with ease,
And feel how sweet it is to live,
Careless what fate may give;
To think, with gentle yearning mind,
Of dear souls who have crossed the Infinite Sea;
To muse with cheerful hope of what shall be
For those we leave behind
When the night comes which knows no earthly morn;
Yet mingled with the young in hopes and fears,
And bringing from the treasure-house of years,
Some fair-set counsel long-time worn;
To let the riper days of life,
The tumult and the strife,
Go by, and in their stead
Dwell with the living past,
So living, yet so dead.
The mother's kiss upon the sleeper's brow,
The little fish caught from the brook,
The dead child-sister's gentle voice and look,
The school days and the father's parting hand;
The days so far removed, yet oh! so near,
So full of precious memories dear;
The wonder of flying Time, so hard to understand!
Not in clear eye or ear
Dwells our chief protit here.
We are not as the brutes, who fade, and make no sign;
We are sustained where'er we go,
In happiness and woe,
By some indwelling faculty divine,
Which lifts us from the deep
Of failing senses aye, and duller brain,
And wafts us back to youth again;
And as a vision fair dividing sleep,
Pierces the vasts behind, the voids before,
And opens to us an invisible gate,
And sets our winged footsteps, scorning Time and Fate
At the celestial door.

And sweet it is to take,
With something of the eager haste of youth
Some fainter glimpse of Truth
For its own sake;
To observe the ways of bee, or plant, or bird;
To trace in Nature the ineffable Word,
Which by the gradual wear of secular time,

How to Grow Old.

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Thou dost remember what lieth between:

Growing old willingly,

Thankful, serene. Hearts at the sound of thy coming are lightened,

Ready and willing thy hand to relieve; Many a face at thy kind word has brightened"It is more blessed to give than receive!"

Growing old happily,

Ceasing to grieve. Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory,

Have a sweet recompense youth cannot know; Ears that grow dull to the world and its story, Drink in the songs that from Paradise fow:

Growing old graciously,
Christian-like grow.

Never a feeling of envy or sorrow

When the bright faces of children are seen; Never a year from the young wouldst thou borrow

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They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time

Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round

Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn,
As he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,

"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom; And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.

But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin

At him here;
But the old three cornered hat,
And the breeches—and all that,

Are so queer!

And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree

In the spring,
Let them smile as I do now,
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

-Oliver Wendell Holmes.

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