This world is all a fleeting show On Linden when the sun was low, "Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, In this the art of living lies, Mary had a little lamb, With fingers weary and worn, John Gilpin was a citizen In poverty, hunger and dirt, And what is friendship but a name, A charm that follows wealth or fame And love is still an emptier sound Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain: Oh, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave! Oh, give me my lowly thatched cottage again, O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. Three fishers went sailing out into the west, At the close of the day when the hamlet is still; Sweet Vale of Avoca, how calm could I rest In the old oaken bucket that hangs in the well. An exile from home, splendor dazzles in vain, On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep. You have waked me too soon; I must slumber again; Rock me to sleep, mother; rock me to sleep. The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, SUCCESS.--B. F. TAYLOR. A human form has many weaknesses. A mere inscription on paper, or on a monument, is nothing, for they involve only questions of material durability; but when a man's name is heard and loved for a hundred years after he has ceased to use it, we conclude that it may live a thousand, and agree to respect that name forever. This, as men think, is to touch the top round of complete success. True successes are not the result of accident; a man may blunder into a triumph, but he is a blunderer still. A world was discovered by one man; but he was not looking for it. The discovery of the birthplace of a dew-drop, by another man, was a greater piece of work. And that man in the battle of Chesapeake Bay, not the admiral, not he who opened his kennels, and unmuzzled his surly dogs, and crashed his way to glory,-but the man who never handled a lanyard in all his life, never heard of fame. who all through that storm of shot and shell, and splintered fire, calmly felt the good ship's way with lead and line, and cried, steady and strong, all through that thunder, "Four fathoms three," "Five fathoms four;" in that day and hour, that man achieved a grand success. Sir John Moore fell on the works at Corunna, and they buried him out of sight by the flicker of a lantern. The sods lay heavily on that dead hero's breast, until an obscure Irishman, one who preached to peasants, lifted the cumbering sods with his "Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note;" and to-day Corunna's hero walks the world with the rhythmic march of his burial-song. But the great successes of this world are not the works of one man. The great quadruple cylinder press is composed of the mingled brains of a thousand men. Ten years ago they cleft the gray waters of the Atlantic, as the old Red Sea was cleft; and a few Pilgrim words of English speech came and went dry-shod; and the depths were still again. So men put on their hats like extinguishers, and the excitement died out like the briefest of candles. But the letter "A" of every great success is a failure; and repeated failures have made the alphabet that has spelled out the grandest pieces of orthography that the world ever saw. On the 28th of July, a few years after, another English voice came up out of the waters. Of a truth, great things have been done in the month of July. Wallace had a day in it at Falkirk; Marston Moor claims one; Thermopylæ another; Prague, a third; Liberty, a fourth, Lundy's Lane and Gettysburg have filled it with thunder; but this one triumph over land and sea, over time and space, has filled it with glory, and crowned them all. The lingering angel has set one foot on the sea, at last; and on the morning of the 28th, as the little breath of human greeting flitted westward, and left the sun behind, he proclaimed, "There shall be time no longer." These are kingly successes, that it takes half the world to crown. These are they to whom the broad age turns, as wax to the seal, and bears an image and superscription greater than Cæsar's. These are they who maintain the right of the human race, despite all wrongs and weaknesses, to stand firmly upon that round of the ladder of being where God placed them at the first, "a little lower than the angels," and within speaking distance of His throne. LEEDLE YAWCOB STRAUSS. CHARLES F. ADAMS. I haf von funny leedle poy Vot gomes schust to my knee,— Der queerest schap, der createst rogue He runs, und schumps, and schmashes dings But vot off dot? He vas mine son, Mine leedle Yawcob Strauss. He get der measels und der mumbs, He sbills mine glass off lager bier, He fills mine pipe mit Limburg cheese- I'd dake dot vrom no oder poy But leedle Yawcob Strauss. He dakes der milk-ban for a dhrum, Und cuts mine cane in dwo To make der schticks to beat it mit Mine cracious, dot vas drue! I dinks mine hed vas schplit abart He asks me questions sooch as dese: Who vos it cuts dot schmoodth blace oudt Vrom der hair ubon mine hed? Und vhere der plaze goes vrom der lamp How gan I all dese dings eggsblain I somedimes dink I schall go vild Mit sooch a grazy poy, Und vish vonce more I gould haf rest Und beaceful dimes enshoy. But ven he vas ashleep in ped, So quiet as a mouse, I prays der Lord, "Dake anydings, INTRA, MINTRA, CUTRA, CORN. Fifty fingers, all in a line, Yours are thirty, and twenty are mine; Ten sweet eyes that sparkle and shine. Motherly Mary, age of ten, Even the finger-tips again, Glance along the line, and then "Intra, mintra, cutra, corn, Apple seed and briar-thorn, Ruble, roble, rabble and rout, Out!" Sentence falls on Curly-head; "Intra, mintra," the fiat goes, Is it more than a childish play? Why? What pain in the sight, I pray? Ah, too true! As the fingers fall, So in the fateful days to come, The lot shall fall in many a home That breaks a heart and fills a tomb; Shall fall, and fall, and fall again, Like a law that counts our love all vain;- One by one-and who shall say That calleth of these dear babes away? |