MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 175

"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
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;
And see his lordly fellow-worm
The poor petition spurn,
Unmindful, though 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 human kind
Is surely not the best!

176

UNSEEN SPIRITS.

The poor, oppresséd, honest man

Had never, sure, been born,
Had there not been some recompense
To comfort those that mourn!

"O 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 pleasures torn;

But O, a blest relief to those
That weary-laden mourn!”

UNSEEN SPIRITS

WILLIS.

THE shadows lay along Broadway,

'Twas near the twilight tide,

And slowly there a lady fair

Was walking in her pride;

Alone walked she; but, viewlessly,

Walked spirits at her side.

Peace charmed the street beneath her feet,

And Honor charmed the air;

And all astir looked kind on her,

And called her good and fair;

For all God ever gave to her

She kept with chary care.

THE TRUE MEASUre of liFE.

She kept with care her beauties rare
From lovers warm and true;
For her heart was cold to all but gold,
And the rich came not to woo:
But honored well are charms to sell,
If priests the selling do.

Now walking there was one more fair,

A slight girl, lily pale;

And she had unseen company

To make the spirit quail:

177

'Twixt Want and Scorn she walked forlorn, And nothing could avail.

No mercy now can clear her brow

For this world's peace to pray;

For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air,
Her woman's heart gave way;

But the sin forgiven by Christ in heaven,
By man is cursed alway.

THE TRUE MEASURE OF LIFE.

P. J. BAILEY.

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breath;
In feelings, not in figures on the dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs when they beat
For God, for man, for duty. He most lives,
Who thinks most, feels noblest, acts the best.
Life is but a means unto an end- that end,
Beginning, mean, and end to all things, God.

"BRING forth the horse!" The horse was brought;

In truth he was a noble steed,

A Tartar of the Ukraine breed,

Who look'd as though the speed of thought

Were in his limbs; but he was wild,

Wild as the wild deer, and untaught,
With spur and bridle undefiled —

'Twas but a day he had been caught;
And snorting, with erected mane,
And struggling fiercely, but in vain,
In the full foam of wrath and dread
To me the desert-born was led;
They bound me on, that menial throng,
Upon his back with many a thong;

Then loosed him with a sudden lash

Away! · away!.

and on we dash!

Torrents less rapid and less rash!

Away!-away!

my breath was gone:

I saw not where he hurried on:

'Twas scarcely yet the break of day,
And on he foam'd — away! — away!

The last of human sounds which rose,
As I was darted from my foes,

Was the wild shout of savage laughter,
Which on the wind came roaring after
A moment from that rabble rout:
With sudden wrath I wrench'd my head,

And snapp'd the cord which to the mane
Had bound my neck in lieu of rein,
And, writhing half my form about,

Howl'd back my curse; but midst the tread,
The thunder of my courser's speed,
Perchance they did not hear nor heed:

It vexes me for I would fain

Have paid their insult back again.
I paid it well in after days:

There is not of that castle-gate,

Its drawbridge and portcullis' weight,
Stone, bar, moat, bridge, or barrier left;
Nor of its field a blade of grass,

Save what grows on a ridge of wall,
Where stood the hearthstone of the hall;
And many a time ye there might pass,
Nor dream that e'er that fortress was :

I saw its turrets in a blaze,

Their crackling battlements all cleft,

And the hot lead pour down like rain
From off the scorch'd and blackening roof,
Whose thickness was not vengeance-proof.
They little thought that day of pain,
When launch'd, as on the lightning's flash,
They bade me to destruction dash,

That one day I should come again,
With twice five thousand horse, to thank
The Count for his uncourteous ride.
They play'd me then a bitter prank,
When, with the wild horse for my guide,
They bound me to his foaming flank :
At length I play'd them one as frank-