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Look not alone on youthful prime,
Or manhood's active might;
Man then is useful to his kind,
Supported is his right.

But see him on the edge of life,

With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want, oh! ill-matched pair!

Show man was made to mourn.

A few seem favorites of fate,

In Pleasure's lap carest;
Yet, think not all the rich and great
Are likewise truly blest.

But, oh! what crowds in every land
Are wretched and forlorn.
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,
That man was made to mourn.

And see his lordly fellow-worm The poor petition spurn, Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife And helpless offspring mourn.

If I'm designed yon lordling's slave-
By nature's law designed,
Why was an independent wish
E'er planted in my mind?
If not, why am I subject to
His cruelty or scorn?

Or why has man the will and power
To make his fellow mourn?

Yet, let not this too much, my son,
Disturb thy youthful breast:
This partial view of humankind
Is surely not the last!

The poor, oppressed, honest man
Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves,
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heaven-erected face O
The smiles of love adorn,
Man's inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn!

See yonder poor, o'erlabored wight,
So abject, mean, and vile,
Who begs a brother of the earth
To give him leave to toil;

death! the poor man's dearest friend,

The kindest and the best! Welcome the hour my aged limbs

Are laid with thee at rest! The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow From pomp and pleasure torn; But, oh! a blest relief to those That weary-laden mourn!

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LOVE.

SAMUEL BUTLER.

LOVE is too great a happiness
For wretched mortals to possess;
For could it hold inviolate
Against those cruelties of fate
Which all felicities below
By rigid laws are subject to,
It would become a bliss too high

For perishing mortality;
Translate to earth the joys above;
For nothing goes to Heaven but Love.
All love at first, like generous wine,
Ferments and frets until 'tis fine;
For when 'tis settled on the lee,
And from the impurer matter free,
Becomes the richer still, the older,
And proves the pleasanter, the colder.

WILLIAM ALLEN BUTLER.

WORK AND WORSHIP. "Laborare est orare."- ST. AUGUSTINE.

CHARLEMAGNE, the mighty monarch,

As through Metten Wood he
strayed,

Found the holy hermit, Hutto,
Toiling in the forest glade.

In his hand the woodman's hatchet,
By his side the knife and twine,
There he cut and bound the faggots
From the gnarled and stunted pine.

Well the monarch knew the hermit
For his pious works and cares,
And the wonders which had followed
From his vigils, fasts, and prayers.

Much he marvelled now to see him
Toiling thus, with axe and cord;
And he cried in scorn, "O Father,
Is it thus you serve the Lord ?"

But the hermit resting neither

Hand nor hatchet, meekly said: "He who does no daily labor

May not ask for daily bread.

"Think not that my graces slumber
While I toil throughout the day;
For all honest work is worship,
And to labor is to pray.

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THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH.
A DREAM OF PONCE DE LEON.

A STORY of Ponce de Leon,

A voyager withered and old, Who came to the sunny Antilles, In quest of a country of gold. He was wafted past islands of spices, As bright as the emerald seas, Where all the forests seem singing,

So thick were the birds on the trees; The sea was clear as the azure,

And so deep and so pure was the sky That the jasper-walled city seemed shining

Just out of the reach of the eye.

By day his light canvas he shifted, And round strange harbors and bars:

By night, on the full tides he drifted, 'Neath the low-hanging lamps of the stars. [sunset, 'Neath the glimmering gates of the In the twilight empurpled and dim, The sailors uplifted their voices,

And sang to the Virgin a hymn. "Thank the Lord!"said De Leon, the sailor,

At the close of the rounded refrain; "Thank the Lord, the Almighty, who blesses

The ocean-swept banner of Spain!

The shadowy world is behind us,
The shining Cipango before;
Each morning the sun rises brighter
On ocean, and island, and shore.
And still shall our spirits grow lighter,
As prospects more glowing unfold;
Then on, merry men! to Cipango,

To the west, and the regions of gold!"

There came to De Leon the sailor,

Some Indian sages, who told Of a region so bright that the waters Were sprinkled with islands of gold. And they added: "The leafy Bimini, A fair land of grottos and bowers Is there; and a wonderful fountain Upsprings from its gardens of flowers.

That fountain gives life to the dying,

And youth to the aged restores: They flourish in beauty eternal,

Who set but their feet on its shores!"

Then answered De Leon, the sailor: "I am withered, and wrinkled, and old;

I would rather discover that fountain Than a country of diamonds and gold."

Away sailed De Leon, the sailor;
Away with a wonderful glee,
Till the birds were more rare in the

azure,

The dolphins more rare in the sea. Away from the shady Bahamas.

Over waters no sailor had seen, Till again on his wandering vision, Rose clustering islands of green. Still onward he sped till the breezes Were laden with odors, and lo! A country embedded with flowers, A country with rivers aglow! More bright than the sunny Antilles, More fair than the shady Azores. "Thank the Lord!" said De Leon, the sailor,

As feasted his eye on the shores, "We have come to a region, my brothers,

More lovely than earth, of a truth; And here is the life-giving fountain, The beautiful Fountain of Youth."

Then landed De Leon, the sailor,

Unfurled his old banner, and sung; But he felt very wrinkled and withered,

All around was so fresh and so

young.

The palms, ever-verdant, were blooming,

Their blossoms e'en margined the

seas;

O'er the streams of the forests bright flowers

Hung deep from the branches of

trees.

"Praise the Lord!" sang De Leon, the sailor;

His heart was with rapture aflame; And he said: "Be the name of this region

By Florida given to fame. 'Tis a fair, a delectable country,

More lovely than earth, of a truth; I soon shall partake of the fountain,

The beautiful Fountain of Youth!"

But wandered De Leon, the sailor,

In search of the fountain in vain; No waters were there to restore him To freshness and beauty again. And his anchor he lifted, and murmured,

As the tears gathered fast in his eye, "I must leave this fair land of the flowers,

Go back o'er the ocean, and die," Then back by the dreary Tortugas, And back by the shady Azores, He was borne on the storm-smitten waters

To the calm of his own native shores.

And that he grew older and older,

His footsteps enfeebled gave proof, Still he thirsted in dreams for the fountain,

The beautiful Fountain of Youth.

One day the old sailor lay dying

On the shores of a tropical isle, And his heart was enkindled with rapture; [smile. And his face lighted up with a

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