A PSALM OF LIFE. WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. TELL me not, in mournful numbers, For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, But to act, that each to-morrow Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'erhead! Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footsteps on the sands of time; Footsteps, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, Learn to labor and to wait. THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death, And, with his sickle keen, He reaps the bearded grain at a breath, Shall I have nought that is fair, saith he He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes, He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise He bound them in his sheaves. My Lord has need of these flowerets gay, Dear tokens of the earth are they, They shall all bloom in fields of light, And saints, upon their garments white, And the mother gave, in tears and pain, |