Each breath is burdened with a bidding, and every minute hath its mis .sion; For spirits, good and bad, cluster on the thickly peopled air: Sin may blast thee, grace may bless thee, good or ill this hour: That, as he toileth upward, crumble successively behind him : No going back, the past is an abyss; no stopping, for the present perish eth; But ever hasting on, precarious on the foothold of To-day. Our cares are all To-day; our joys are all To-day; And in one little word, our life, what is it, but-To-day? OF TO-MORROW. THERE is a floating island, forward, on the stream of time, Her eyes are bright with invitation, and allurement lurketh in her cheeks; Many lovers seek her still, even to the cataract of death. There is a fairy skiff, plying on the sea of life, And charitably toiling still to save the shipwrecked crews; Piloting, through surf and strait, the fragile barks of men: To-morrow, whispereth weakness; and To-morrow findeth him the weaker: To-morrow, promisetli conscience; and behold, no to-day for a fulfilment. O name of happy omen unto youth, O bitter word of terror to the dotard, Goal of folly's lazy wish, and sorrow's ever-coming friend, Fraud's loophole,-caution's hint,-and trap to catch the honest, Thou wealth to many poor, disgrace to many noble, Thou hope and fear, thou weal and woe, thou remedy, thou ruin, To-morrow is that lamp upon the marsh, which a traveller never reacheth; To-morrow, the shifting anchorage, dangerous trust of mariners; Why should I? let me trust To-morrow,-this is the Cassava's poison. Lo, it is the even of To-day,—a day so lately a To-morrow ; O faint heart, still shall thy whisper be, To-morrow, And must the growing avalanche of sin roll down that easy slope? stop it; But haste thee with the lever of a prayer, and stem its strength To-day: For its race may speedily be run, and this poor nut, thyself, Be whelmed in death and suffocating guilt, that dreary Alpine snow-wreath. Pensioner of life, be wise, and heed a brother's counsel, I also am a beadsman, with scrip and staff as thou: Wouldest thou be bold against the past, and all its evil memories, Wouldest thou be safe amid the present, its dangers and temptations, Wouldest thou be hopeful of the future, vague though it be and endless? Haste thee, repent, believe, obey! thou standest in the courage of a legion ; Commend the Past to God, with all its irrevocable harm, Humbly, but in cheerful trust, and banish vain regrets ; Come to him, continually come, casting all the Present at his feet, OF AUTHORSHIP. GREAT is the dignity of Authorship: I magnify mine office; For it is to be one of a noble band, the welfare of the world, Whose haunt is on the lips of men, whose dwelling in their hearts, Who are precious in the retrospect of Memory, and walk among the visions of Hope, Who commune with the good for everlasting, and call the wisest, brother, Whose voice hath burst the Silence, and whose light is flung upon the Darkness, —Flashing jewels on a robe of black, and harmony bounding out of chaos,— Who gladden empires with their wisdom, and bless to the farthest gene ration, Doers of illimitable good, gainers of inestimable glory! We speak but of the Magnates, we heed none humbler than the highest, We take no count of sorry scribes, nor waste one thought upon the groundlings; Our eyes are lifted from the multitude, groping in the dark with candles, To gaze upon that firmament of praise, the constellated lamps of learning. Everduring witnesses of Mind, undisputed evidence of Power, Goodly volumes, living stones, build up their author's temple ; Though of low estate, his rank is above princes, though needy, he hath worship of the rich, When Genius unfurleth on the winds his banner as a mighty leader. Keen and clear perception gloweth on his forehead like a sunbeam, He readeth men at a glance, and mists roll away before him; The wise have set him as their captain, the foolish are rebuked at his presence, The excellent bless him with their prayers, and the wicked praise him by their curses; His voice, mighty in operation, stirreth up the world as a trumpet, And kings account it honour to be numbered of his friends. Rare is the worthiness of Authorship: I justify mine office ; Albeit fancies weak as mine credit not the calling. For it addeth immortality to dying facts, that are ready to vanish away, Embalming as in amber the poor insects of an hour; Shedding upon stocks and stones the tender light of interest, And illumining dark places of the earth, with radiance of classic lustre. It hath power to make past things present, and availeth for the present in the future, Delivering thoughts, and words, and deeds, from the outer darkness of oblivion : Where are the sages and the heroes, giants of old time ?— Where are the mighty kings that reigned before Agamemnon ?— The golden Satrap, and the Tetrarch,—the Hun, and the Druid, and the Celt? The merchant princes of Phoenicia, and the minds that fashioned Elephanta? Alas, for the poet hath forgotten them; and lo! they are outcasts of Memory; Alas, that they are withered leaves, sapless and fallen from the chaplet of fame. Speak, Etruria, whose bones be these, entombed with costly care,— Copan and Palenque, dreamy ruins in the West, the forest hath swallowed up your sculptures; (5) Syracuse,―how silent of the past!-Carthage, thou art blotted from re membrance! Egypt, wondrous shores, ye are buried in the sandhills of forgetfulness! And none durst wrestle with that Angel, iron-sinewed bridegroom of Space; Ask of grand Caziques, and priests of the pyramids of Mexico,- Who, once, could roam their own Elysian plains, free, generous, and happy, Who, now, degraded and in exile, having sold their fatherland for nought, Sink and are extinguished in the western seas, even as the sun they follow, Where is the record of their deeds, their prowess worthy of Achilles, Nestor's wisdom, the chivalry of Manlius, the native eloquence of Cicero, The skill of Xenophon, the spirit of Alcibiades, the firmness of a Maccabæan mother, Brotherly love that Antigone might envy, the honour and the fortitude of Regulus ? Alas! their glory and their praise have vanished like a summer-cloud; Alas! that they are dead indeed; they are not written down in the Book of the living. High is the privilege of Authorship: I purify mine office; Albeit earthly stains pollute it in my hands. For it is to the world a teacher and a guide, Mentor of that gay Telemachus; Warning, comforting, and helping,—a lover and a friend of Man. Nature's worshipper, and neophyte of grace, rich in tender sympathies, |