Then, brother, hope and cheer thee,
For glorious hours are near thee,
If thou but livest holy, and hope, and trust, and wait;
Soon, trials all departed,
Thou, heavenward, homeward started,
Shalt find a glorious entrance at heaven's golden gate.
MAN CANNOT LIVE AND LOVE NOT.
MAN cannot live and love not;
Around, beneath, above,
There is that's bright and beautiful,
And worthy of his love;
There is in every object
That works out nature's plan,
Howe'er so low and humble,
That's worth the love of man.
Each blade of grass that springeth
From earth to beauty fair;
Each tiny bird that wingeth
Its course through trackless air;
Each worm that crawls beneath thee,
Each creature, great and small,
Is worthy of thy loving;
For God hath made them all.
Should earthly friends forsake thee,
And earth to thee look drear;
Should morning's dark forebodings
But fill thy soul with fear,
Look up! and cheer thy spirit-
Up to thy God above;
He'll be thy friend forever-
Forever!-"God is Love!"
BETTER THAN GOLD.
"Find we Lorenzo wiser for his wealth?
What if thy rental I inform, and draw
An inventory new to set thee right?
Where is thy treasure? Gold says, 'Not in me!'
And not in me, the diamond. Gold is poor,
Indies insolvent-. Seek it in thyself,
Seek in thy naked self, and find it there."
GOLD is, in itself, harmless-brilliant, beautiful to look upon; but, when man entertains an ungovernable, all-absorbing love of it, gold is his curse and a mill-stone around his neck, drawing him down to earth. How much sorrow that love has caused! O, there is love that is angelic! But high and holy as love is when bestowed upon a worthy object, in like proportion is it base and ignoble when fixed upon that which is unworthy.
It may well be questioned whether, taking a broad view of the matter, gold has not produced more evil than good. Point out, if you can, one crime, be it the most heinous and inhuman of which you can possibly conceive, that has not been perpetrated for the sake of gold, or has not its equal in the history of the battle for wealth. We can conceive of no worse a thing than a human soul idolizing a mass of shining metal, and counting out, with lean and tremulous hands, the coined dollars. Late and early the devotee bows at the shrine. No motive can induce him to remove his fixed gaze from the god he worships. No act too base for him to execute if gold holds out its glittering purse. No tears of widows, no orphan's cry, no brother's famishing look, no parent's imploring gaze, no wife's loving appeal, doth he heed; but on, and on, day by day, night by night, he rakes together the scattered fragments, rears his altar, and lays his soul upon it, a burnt sacrifice to his God.