88 



TBUISMS. 



At all events it cannot yield 

 The good that hope foretold, 



In adding field to fertile field, 

 Or piling gold on gold. 



For riches ^vill not fail to cloj, 

 And turn life's course awry, 



Leaving, instead of healthful joy, 

 Morbid satiety. 



Then let us this delusion spurn 

 In most determined mood. 



And humbly do our best to learn 

 The art of doing good. 



For others let the labourer live. 

 For others let him toil, 



For others let him daily strive. 

 Or burn the midnight oil. 



It is a blessed thing to feel, 

 As love of self grows less, 



A brother's or a sister's weal 

 Our chiefest happiness. 



And make no capital of deeds 



Intrinsically good ; 

 'Tis only vanity that feeds 



On doing what we should. 



