Where'er a tear is dried, a wounded heart Course of Time. A COUNTRY LIFE. How sacred and how innocent From flattery or fears! This was the first and happiest life, Till pride exchangèd peace for strife, 'Twas here the poets were inspired, Here taught the multitude; The brave they here with honour fired, And civilised the rude. That golden age did entertain No passion but of love: The thoughts of ruling and of gain Them that do covet only rest, Opinion is the rate of things, From hence our peace doth flow; I have a better fate than kings, Because I think it so. When all the stormy world doth roar, How unconcern'd am I ! I cannot fear to tumble lower, Secure in these unenvied walls, Silence and innocence are safe ; A heart that's nobly true, At all these little arts can laugh, That do the world subdue! MRS KATHARINE PHILIPS, 1631-1664. THE MAIR THAT YE WORK, AYE THE MAIR WILL YE WIN. BE eident, be eident, fleet time rushes on; The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. The earth gathers fragrance while nursing the flower, The wave waxes stronger while feeding the shower, The stream gains in speed, as it sweeps o'er the lin; The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. There's nought got by idling, there's nought got for nought, Health, wealth, and contentment by labour are bought, In raising yoursel', ye may help up your kin ; The mair that ye work, aye the mair will ye win. Let every man aim in his art to excel, Let every man ettle to fend for himsel', JAMES BALLANTINE, 1808 NOTHING TO DO. NOTHING to do? Oh! away with such blindness ; Plenty of work we may find if we will. 66 'Work, work in earnest, be patient, be true." Nothing to do? Think you God, who created The winds and the waters, the birds and the flowers, Think, think you that He who their mission dictated Endow'd us in vain with such marvellous powers; No, no, in the roll and the rush of the river, The bloom of the flower and the song of the bird, The voice of Eternity echoeth ever, And "labour and love" the commands that are heard! Nothing to do? Oh! what sinful delusion; Hear ye the din in the populous streets; Hark! how dispelling this fatal illusion The dark troubled breast of humanity beats; Thousands of weary ones need consolation, Thousands of children are crying for bread, Thousands fall heedlessly into temptation, Thousands are homeless, and scantily fed. Nothing to do? Are no strong ones oppressing That prompts you to say "you have nothing to do;" Angels and men to your souls are appealing, "Work, work in earnest, be patient, be true." ROWLAND BROWN, 1837— PROCRASTINATION. BE wise to-day; 'tis madness to defer; |