And, oh! when Death comes in his terror to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,
In that moment of darkness with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft"—and depart.
J. Lawrence.
CLXXIX.
PRESS ON.
Press on! there's no such word as fail!
Press nobly on! the goal is near,—
Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!
Look upward, onward,—never fear!
Why should'st thou faint? Heaven smiles above,
Though storm and vapor intervene;
That sun shines on, whose name is Love,
Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene.
Press on! surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;
He fails alone who feebly creeps;
He wins who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And, through the ebon wails of night
Hew down a passage unto day.
Press on! if once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death, they're sure to fly.
To coward ranks the bullet speeds,
While on their breasts, who never quail,
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,
Bright courage, like a coat of mail.
Press on! if Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts
Taking old gifts, and granting new.
The wisdom of the present hour
Makes up for follies past and gone;—
To weakness strength succeeds, and power
From frailty springs,—press on! press on!
Press bravely on! and reach the goal,
And gain the prize, and wear the crown;
Faint not! for to the steadfast soul
Come wealth, and honor, and renown.
To thine own self be true, and keep
Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil;
Press on! and thou shalt surely reap
A heavenly harvest for thy toil.
P. Benjamin.
CLXXX.
KINDNESS.
The blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
Have their own season. 'T is a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when sectarian juice
renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.
Sergeant Talfourd.