California Agriculturist and Live Stock Journal. 



179 



^MUr(. 



Tl^c Better for the Doing*. 



iSpM 



BY ISAAC KINLEY. 



fHROUGH the dim twilight of the ages. 

 From cycles lou^ ago of time, 



Still come the voices of the sages; 



And written ou historic pages 

 Are names of men of deed sublime. 



The world doth joy, the world doth glory. 

 In its great names of long ago — 



The demigods of ancient story 

 ■Who waked mankind from sin and wo, 

 Whose lives it is our bliss to know. 



Arouse thee! O, my laggard spirit! 

 Let deeds of greatness then he thine, 



And bless the world that shall inherit 

 '.\ hy name, thy fame, thy great design 

 Of deed, or word, or living line. 



If on thy name would be no blackness, 

 No spot of foulness mar thy fame — 



Then in thy will must be no slackness; 

 Thy soul must be a living flame, 

 Undimmed by aught of siu or shame. 



Think'st thou there is no living Hydra? 

 No monster in thy path to-day ? 



Ah ! cleanse thou yon Augean stable. 

 And yon Procrustean tyrant slay — 

 Where all must walk, make clear the way. 



What is the season, doFt thou ask me, 



O, laggard spirit of my life! 

 Why to thy utmost strength I task thee ? 



Why struggle in scenes of fctrifo? 



I answer that thou art a human, 

 "With soul to daro and hand to do; 



And if thou wouldst but be a true man. 

 Must labor on tby journey through. 



Thou mightst beneath the weeping willow, 



On flowery beds of ease recline, 

 Or idly dream upon thy pillow 



What blissful hours in life are thine. 



Thou mightet, I grant, with little labor. 

 Contrive to know what others know; 



As wise become as is tby neighbor, 

 And do, perchance, as others do. 



Hath love for man or hope of heaven, 



My laggard spirit e'er inspired ? 

 Know, then, for every talent given, 



That ten will be of thee required. 



It is the law of human erowing— 

 Each sturdy stroke gives strength to strike; 



And this great truth is worth thy knowing- 

 It reaches all mankind alike. 



It is a truth to all extending, 



Alike to all organic things, 

 To him who is his power expending, 



The power expended, power brings. 



'Tis work, that strength the toiler gives; 



For all he does he gains the more; 

 And struggling on each day ho lives. 



Is better for the day before. 



From day to day his strength grows stronger, 

 Grows stronger for the work that's done; 



And life, itself, protracted longer. 

 Is youthful to its setting sun. 



The sailor on the wide, wild ocean, 

 Learns boldness when the storm-winds roar; 



The soldier, used to war's commotion, 

 Knows naught of fear when battles lower. 



And he who watches the careering 

 Of planets through the far, blue sky. 



But sees the farthe'" for this peering 

 Of his heaven-searching eye. 



And BO it is— the power of thinking, 

 Of tracing reason's endless chain— 



The mind is quickened by this linking 

 Of fact to fact in endless train. 



'Tis ever gaining in acuteness. 



The mental sight doth clearer grow; 

 And with more logical astuteness, 

 Efl'ect and cause more plainly show. 



E'en BO it is— the power of loving 

 Is stronger for the love we bear. 



And every deed of heartfelt kindness 

 But lilts us where the angels are. 



Then, if each deed that's worth the doing. 

 To WELL no be the golden rule, 



In the vocation we're pursuing 

 We'll find life's labor is our school. 



And praising God for work that's given, 

 From morning dawn to sot of sun. 



Grow stronger for that we have striven, 

 And better for the work that's done. 



Each gentle thought, each noble feeling. 

 Doth ever make the soul more pnro; 



And each day's toil the truth 'b revealing 

 That God doth bless the noble doer. 



Then hail my brother! hail my sister! 



Toiling on life's rugged way; 

 For ye shall reap in the hereafter. 



Rich blessings for the toils to-day. 

 San Jose, November, 1876. 



^XTelcome to the Pfations. 



BY OUTER WENDELL HOLMES. 

 I. 



Bright on the banners of lily and rose, 



Lo, the last sun of our century sets! 

 Wreathe the black cannon that scowled on our 

 foes. 



All but her friendships the Nation forgets! 



All but her friends and their welcome forgets! 

 These are around her: But where are her foes? 



Lo, while the sun of her century sets, 

 Peace with her garlands of lily and rose. 



11. 

 Welcome! a shout like the war trmnpet swell 



Wakes the wild echoes that slumber aroundl 

 Welcome! it quiveis from Liberty's bt'll; 



Welcome! the walls of her temple resound! 



Hiirk! the gray walls of her temple resound! 

 Fade the far voices or hill-side and dell; 



Welcome! still whisper the echoes around! 

 Welcome! still trembles on Liberty's belli 



III. 

 Thrones of the Continents! Isles of the Sea! 



Yours are the garlands of peace we entwine; 

 Welcome once more to the land ot the free. 



Shadowed aline by the palm and the pine; 



Sitftly they murium-, the palm and the pine: 

 " Hushed is our strife in the laud of the free ." 



Over your children their branches entwine, 

 Thrones of the Continents! Isles of the Sea! 



The Storm. 



Up from mirk midnight to the dawn. 

 Waking, I heard the wild wind-rout. 

 With sobbing wail and gusty shout, 



Sweep through the elms that skirt the lawn. 



Those patriarchs of their race, whose leaves 

 Scarce murmured as the zephyrs passed. 

 Now groaned in concert with the blast. 



And with their branches smote the eaves. 



Dim broke the morn along the crags 

 That eastward loom above the sea. 

 And long proces lione sailed a-lee 



Of vapory forms, like weird hags. 



Now in one sheeted flood it rains; 



But the slant wind, with headlong force. 



Caught in its impetuous course. 

 And dashed it on the trembling panes. 



Anon the sun looked through the rift. 



But pallid as his sister moon 



^Yhen glows on high night's sober noon, 

 Chasmg through heaven the flying drift. 



At length, uprising toward his height. 

 Majestic moves the orb of day. 

 And subject nature owns his sway. 



And the spent storm attests his might. 



Gone the long night's tempestuous dream. 

 And mountain vale and forest aisle 

 And earth's broad fields serenely smile. 



Subdued by that all-cheering beam. 



And all is still, save from afar 

 That one low murmur evermore. 

 Where the long roll beats on the shore. 



And wind and wave wage war on war. 



— [George Lunt, in Harper's. 



A Pacific December. 



O, Autumn, with thy dying smell. 

 So fiiint, so sad, and yet so sweet; 

 Amid the strewiugs at my feet. 



By pattering nut and broken shell, 



I feel the secret of the spell. 

 The flying year's In full retreit— 



Foiever. 



Reburnlshed by the last week's rains 

 The fields recall the green of .Spring; 

 The hills dCHciibe a sharper ring; 



The dews in dluincnds drench the plains; 



The leaves grow thinner In the lanes; 

 The threads upon the hedgerows cling — 

 In silver. 



Pale, like the fading forest hair. 



The slanting sunbeams straggle through; 



The sky is of a tearful blu"'; 

 A pensive eseeuce fills the air; 

 And, with pathetic sweetness fair, 

 The wan world seems to wave adieu 



Forever. 



The cattle browse along the lea; 



The piping robin haunts the lanes; 



The yellow turning woodland "wanes." 

 The apple tumbles from the tree; 



And Autumn, ranging through, links me 

 To Nature. 



O pensive and poetic year. 

 What is the secret of thy power 

 Whereby my poesy would flower 



Between a radiance and a tear? 



And yet I find no longing hero 

 To paint what trembles to the hour 



Within mo! 



O Eden world of hill and green. 



And distant gleams of slumbering blue! 



I find no lyric language trun 

 To paint the shadow<d and the seen; 



O infinitely touching view. 

 In vain thy spirit peeps between! 



The sublimities that lie in yon 



Evade me. 



The Old Friends. 



Br SABAH DOUDNEY. 



Where are they scattered now. 

 The old, old friends? 

 One made her dwelling where the maples glow, 

 And mighty streams through solemn forests 



flow. 

 But never, from that pine- crowned land of snow, 

 A message sends. 



Some meet me oft amid 



Life's common ways; 

 And then, perchance, a word or smile declares 

 That warm hearts throb between their load of 



cares: 

 For love grows on. like wheat among the tares, 

 Till harvest days. 



" But some are fall'n asleep;" 



The words are sweet! 

 O, friends at rest beneath the blessed sod. 

 My feet still tread the weary road ye trod 

 Ere yet your loving souls went back to God! 



When shall we meet? 



O. thou divinest Friend, 



When shiill it be 

 That I may know them in their garments white ? 

 And see them with a new and clearer sight. 

 Mine old familia'- friends— made fair and bright. 



Like unto thee! 



KTil Desperandnm. 



"There is many a rest in the road of life. 



If we only would stop to take it; 

 And many a tone from the better land, 



If the querulous heart would wake it. 

 To the sunny soul that is full of hope. 



And whose beautiful trust ne'er faileth. 

 The grass is green, and the flowers are bright. 



Though the wintry storm prevaileth. 



Better to hope, though the clouds hang low, 



And to keep the oyrs still lilted; 

 For the sweet blue sky will soon peep throngb. 



When the ominous clouds are nfted. 

 There was never a night without a day, 



Nor an evening without a morning; 

 And the darkest iiour, so the proverb goes. 



Is the hour before the dawning. 



There is many a gem in the path of life. 



Which we pass in our idle pleasure, 

 That is richer far than the jeweled crown. 



Or the miser's hoarded treasure. 

 It may be the love of a little child, 



Or a mother's prayer to heaven; 

 Or. only a beggar's grateful thanks. 



For a cup of water given. 



Better to weave in the web of life, 



A bright and a beautiful filling. 

 And do God's will with a steady mind. 



And hands that are swift and willing. 

 Than to snap the delicate silver threads. 



Of our curious lives asuuut r. 

 And then, heaven blame for the tangled ends, 



And sit to grieve and wonder." 



A Sundred Vears to Come. 



BY WM. a. BBOWN. 



Oh! where will be the birds that sing 



A hundred years to come; 

 The flowers that now in beauty spring 

 A hundred years to come; 

 The rosy lip. 



The lofty brow. 



The heart that beats 



So gayly now? 



Oh! where will be love's beaming eye, 



Joy's pleasant smile and sorrow's sigh, 



A hundred years to come? 



Who'll press for gold this crowded street 



A hundred years to come? 

 Who'll tread yon church with willing feet 

 A hundred yeari to come? 

 Pale, trembling age, 

 And fiery youth, . 

 And childhood with 

 Its brow of truth. 

 The rich and poor, on land and sea, — 

 Where will the mighty millionfi be 

 A hundred ye&rs to come ? 



We all within our graves shall slo«p 



A hundred years to come: 

 No living soul for us will weep 

 A hundred years to come. 

 But otner men 



Our lands shall till. 

 And others then 

 Our streets will fill; 

 While other birds will sing as gay. 

 As bright the sunshine as to-day, 

 A hundred years lo come. 



Rest at Last. 



After the shower, the tranquil sun; 

 Silver stars when the day is done. 

 After the snow, the emerald leaves; 

 After the har\'est, golden sheaves. 

 After the clouda, the violet sky; 

 Quiet woods when the wind goes by. 

 After the tempest, the lull of waves; 

 After the battle, peaceful graves. 

 After the knell, the wedding bells; 

 Joyful greetings from sad farewells. 

 After the bud, the radiant rose; 

 After our weeping, sweet repose. 

 After the burden, the blissful meet; 

 After the furrow, the waking seed. 

 After the flight, the downy nest; 

 Over the snadowy river — rest. 



I'm OroxTing Old. 



BY JOBS G. RAX£. 



^ly days pass ple&santly away, 



My nights are blessed with sweetest sleep. 

 I feel no symptoms of decay, 



I have no cause to mourn or weep. 

 My foes are imi>otent and shy. 



My friends are neither false nor cold. 

 And yet of la^ I often sigh, 



I'm growing old! 



My growing talk of olden times. 

 My growing thirst for early news. 



My growing apathy for rhymes. 

 My growing love for easy shoes. 



My growing hale of crowds and noise. 

 My growing fear of catching cold. 



All tell me In the plainest voice— 

 I'm growing old! 



I'm growing fonder of my staff, 

 I'm growing dimmer in the eye, 



I'm growing fainter in my laugh. 

 I'm grt^wing deeper in my sigh; 



I'm growing careless in my dress, 

 I'm growing frugal of my gold, 



I'm growing wise, I'm growing — j 

 I'm growing old I 



I feel it in my changing taste. 



I see it in my changing air, 

 I see it in my growing waist, 



I see it in my snowy hair; 

 A thousand hints proclaim the truth. 



As plain as truth was ever told. 

 That even in my vaunted youth 



I'm growing old! 



Ah me! my very laurels breathe 

 The tale in mr reluctant ears; 



And every boon the honrs bequeath. 

 But makes me debtor to the years. 



E'en Flattery's honeyed wordsdeclare 

 The secret she would fain withhold. 



And tells me in " How young you are!" 

 *' I'm growing old!" 



Thanks to the years whose rapid flight 

 5Iy sombre muse too sadly sings! 



Thanks for the gleams of golden light 

 That tint the darkness of their wings— 



The light that beams from out the sky 

 Those heavenly mansions to unfold. 



Where all are blest, and none may sigh. 

 "I'm growing old!" 



