A long and a weary way I had come; 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! 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. And together we knelt by her grave to pray, The Maiden Sat at Her Busy Wheel. 'HE maiden sat at her busy wheel, THE Her heart was light and free, And ever in cheerful song broke forth Her song was in mockery of love, And oft I heard her say, "The gathered rose and the stolen heart I looked on the maiden's rosy cheek, And I sighed to think that the traitor love But she thought not of the future days of woe, A year passed on, and again I stood The maiden sat at her busy wheel, Oh, well I knew what had dimmed her eye While she listened to love's soft tale; -Emma C. Embury. THESE Ability and Opportunity. HESE 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. of opportunities, that they will A man cannot expect that his whole life shall be made up 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. of his talents and means. A man's opportunity usually has some relation to his ability. It is an opening for a man 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. THE The Ode of Age. HERE is a sweetness in autumnal days, When the earth, tired a little and grown mute Even though we know the night doth come. As June itself, but clearer, calmer far. Of youth's self-seeking joys, But a cold radiance white As the moon shining on a frosty night. To-morrow is as yesterday, scant change, Too calm to suffer pain, too loving to forget, To lift them to the tranquil heights afar. To gather up the fair laborious day! To have smoothed the path to light To have chased some fiend of Ill away; A little backward to have thrust The instant powers of Drink and Lust; 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, Oh, brother, fainting on your road! There comes for you, ere life and strength be done, An arm to bear your load. A feeble body, maybe bent, and old, 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, A beatific peace greater than tongue can tell. And sweet it is to take, With something of the eager haste of youth To observe the ways of bee, or plant, or bird; Has worked its work sublime; To have touched, with infinite gropings dim, To have found some weed or shell unknown before; more; To make or to declare laws just and sage; Or by the evening hearth, in the old chair, So like, yet so unlike the little ones of old- To sit, girt round with ease, 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; To let the riper days of life, The mother's kiss upon the sleeper's brow, The dead child-sister's gentle voice and look, So full of precious memories dear; The wonder of flying Time, so hard to understand! |