A PSALM OF LIFE.

109

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Finds us farther than to-day.

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,
In the bivouac of life,
Be not like dumb driven cattle,
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,―act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

110.

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.

Footsteps of Angels.

BY H. LONGFELLOW.

WHEN the hours of day are numbered,
And the voices of the night
Wake the better soul, that slumbered,
To a holy, calm delight;

Ere the evening lamps are lighted,
And, like phantoms grim and tall,
Shadows from the fitful firelight

Dance upon the parlour wall;

FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.

111

Then the forms of the departed

Enter at the open door; The beloved, the true-hearted,

Come to visit me once more.

He, the young and strong, who cherished
Noble longings for the strife;
By the roadside fell, and perished,
Weary with the march of life!

They, the holy ones and weakly,
Who the cross of suffering bore,
Folded their pale hands so meekly,
Spake with us on earth no more!

And with them the being beauteous,
Who unto my youth was given,
More than all things else, to love me,
And is now a saint in heaven.

With a slow and noiseless footstep,
Comes that messenger divine;
Takes the vacant chair beside me,
Lays her gentle hand in mine.

And she sits and gazes at me,

With those deep and tender eyes,

112

FOREST HYMN.

Like the stars, so still and saint-like,
Looking downward from the skies.

Uttered not, yet comprehended,
Is the spirit's voiceless prayer;
Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,
Breathing from her lips of air.

O, though oft depressed and lonely,
All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died!

Forest Bymn.

BY W. C. BRYANT.

THE groves were God's first temples. Ere man

learned

To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave,

And spread the roof above,―ere he framed
The lofty vault, to gather and roll back

FOREST HYMN.

113

The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood,
Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down,
And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks,
And supplication. For his simple heart
Might not resist the sacred influences,
Which, from the stilly twilight of the place,
And from the gray old trunks, that high in heaven
Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound
Of the invisible breath, that swayed at once
All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed
His spirit with the thought of boundless power,
And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why

Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore

Only among the crowd, and under roofs

That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at

least,

Here, in the shadow of this aged wood,

Offer one hymn-thrice happy, if it find
Acceptance in His ear.

Father, thy hand

Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou

Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look

down

Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose

All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,