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THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.

WE live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath;
In feelings, not in figures on the dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat
For God, for man, for duty. He most lives,
Who thinks most, feels noblest, acts the best.
Life is but a means unto an end-that end.
Beginning, mean, and end to all things, God.

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And maid, whose cheek outblooms

the rose,

As bright the blazing fagot glows,
Who, bending to the friendly light
Plies her task with busy sleight;
Come, show thy tricks and sportive
graces,

Thus circled round with merry faces.

Backward coil'd, and crouching low,

With glaring eyeballs watch thy foe, The housewife's spindle whirling round,

Or thread, or straw, that on the
ground

Its shadow throws, by urchin sly
Held out to lure thy roving eye;
Then onward stealing, fiercely spring
Upon the futile, faithless thing.
Now, wheeling round, with bootless
skill,

Thy bo-peep tail provokes thee still,
As oft beyond thy curving side
Its jetty tip is seen to glide;
Till from thy centre, starting fair,
Thou sidelong rear'st, with rump in
air,

Erected stiff, and gait awry,

Like madam in her tantrums high:
Though ne'er a madam of them all,
Whose silken kirtle sweeps the hall
More varied trick and whim displays,
To catch the admiring stranger's

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The ends of ravell'd skein to catch,
But lets thee have thy wayward will,
Perplexing oft her sober skill.

MY LOVE IS ON HER WAY.

Он, welcome bat and owlet gray,
Thus winging low your airy way!
And welcome moth and drowsy fly
That to mine ear comes humming by!
And welcome shadows dim and deep,
And stars that through the pale sky
peep;

Oh welcome all! to me ye say
My woodland love is on her way.

Upon the soft wind floats her hair,
Her breath is on the dewy air;
Her steps are in the whisper'd sound,
That steals along the stilly ground.
Oh, dawn of day, in rosy bower,
What art thou to this witching hour?
Oh, noon of day, in sunshine bright,
What art thou to this fall of night?

SNATCHES OF MIRTH IN A DARK
LIFE.

DIDST thou ne'er see the swallow's
veering breast,
Winging the air beneath some murky
cloud

In the sunned glimpses of a stormy
day,

Shiver in silvery brightness?
Or boatman's oar, as vivid lightning
flash

In the faint gleam, that like a spirit's
path

Tracks the still waters of some sul

len lake?

The widest range of human lore,
Or, with unfetter'd fancy, fly
Through airy heights of poesy,
Pausing, smiles with alter'd air,
To see thee climb his elbow-chair,
Or, struggling on the mat below,
Hold warfare with his slipper'd toe.
The widow'd dame, or lonely maid,
Who in the still, but cheerless shade
Of home unsocial, spends her age,
And rarely turns a letter'd page;
Upon her hearth for thee lets fall
The rounded cork, or paper ball,
Nor chides thee on thy wicked watch | And may be so to-morrow.)

Or lonely tower, from its brown mass
of woods,

Give to the parting of a wintry sun One hasty glance in mockery of the night

Closing in darkness round it? (Gentle

friend!

Chide not her mirth who was sad yesterday,

JAMES BALLANTINE.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN DRAP O' DEW.

CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind,

And bear ye a' life's changes, wi' a calm and tranquil mind,

Though pressed and hemmed on every side, ha’e faith and ye'll win through, For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o'dew.

Gin reft frae friends or crost in love, as whiles nae doubt ye've been,
Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae your een,
Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store for you,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and cloudless sky
Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to nature parched and dry,

The genial night, wi' balmy breath, gars verdure spring anew,
And ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine we should feel owre proud and hie,
And in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poortith's e'e,
Some wee dark clouds o' sorrow come, we ken na whence or hoo,
But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

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So fades a summer cloud away
So sinks the gale when storms are
o'er,

So gently shuts the eye of day,
So dies a wave along the shore.

Triumphant smiles the victor brow, Fanned by some angel's purple wing;

Say not Good Night, -but in some Where is, O Grave! thy victory now!

brighter clime

Bid me Good Morning.

And where, insidious Death, thy

sting!

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