Your back has gone up and your shoulders gone down, You've had trouble, have you? I'm sorry; but, John, Poor Katherine! so she has left you,-ah me! Well, there's little Katy,-was that her name, John? Then I give it up! Why, you're younger than I I don't understand how it is,-do you, Jack? I've got all my faculties yet, sound and bright; My hearing is dull, and my leg is more spare, My hair is just turning a little, you see, And lately I've put on a broader-brimmed hat Than I wore at your wedding, but you will agree, Old fellow, I look all the better for that. I'm sometimes a little rheumatic, 'tis true, And my nose isn't quite on a straight line, they say; For all that, I don't think I've changed much, do you? And I don't feel a day older, Jack, not a day. SOWING AND HARVESTING. There is nothing more true than that "whatsoever a man soweth, that shall he also reap;" and we have abundant proof, in the every-day experience of life, that "he that Soweth iniquity shall reap iniquity;" that "they that plow iniquity, and sow wickedness, shall reap the same;' and that those who have "sown the wind shall reap the whirl wind." And then, again, we have the comforting assurance that if we "be not weary in well-doing, in due season we shall reap, if we faint not;" and that "to him that soweth righteousness shall be a sure reward." These are metaphors in which all men are described as husbandmen, sowing the seeds for the harvest, and reaping the fruits thereof. They are sowing their seed in the daylight fair, Some are sowing their seed of pleasant thought; Some are sowing the seeds of word and deed, And some are sowing the seeds of pain, And some are standing with idle hand, Which their soil has borne, and still must bear: And each, in his way, is sowing the seed With a careless hand o'er the earth they sow, Sown in darkness, or sown in light,— LIFE'S BATTLE. AN ORATION. "Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal. Was not spoken of the soul." The course of things below is not a relentless fate. Man's will is unconquerable, and by it he is maker and lord of his destiny; by it, relying on Eternal Power and his own fiery energies, he can build a monument of greatness reaching to the very heavens; by it, allowing those faculties with which he is so richly endowed, to lie dormant in him, and following the low instincts of nature, he may plunge to the very depths of perdition. Yet it was never a part of the Divine plan that he should go down in ignorance and guilt to the darkness of eternal night; existence never was given him that he might degrade it; else why these high and holy aspirations,-these longings after immortality,-these shrinkings from that which is unseen and unknown which pervade the soul even when clothed in the habiliments of vice? "Mighty of heart and mighty of mind," pure as the angels and only a little lower was he when in the morn of creation the beauties of Eden first burst upon his wondering vision, "ere the serpent had accomplished his deadly work and the tree of knowledge yielded its fatal gift." Mighty of heart and mighty of mind," impure and fallen was he when the 66 flaming swords of the angel sentries forever barred his approach to the tree of life, "Lest," said the great I AM, “since he has become as one of us to discern good and evil, he put forth his hand and take of its fruit and live forever." In that bitter hour, when the gates of Paradise were closed against him, and the earth became accursed for his sake, when the fiat of Jehovah went forth condemning him to toil and pain and death, whatever else was taken, the privilege of glorifying anew his ruined manhood, of doing noble and true things, and vindicating himself as a God-made man was not denied him. There is still within him the upspringing of lofty sentiment which contributes to his elevation, and though there are obstacles to be surmounted and difficulties to be vanquished, yet with truth for his watchword, and leaning on his own noble purposes and indefatigable exertions, he may crown his brow with imperishable honors. He may never wear the warrior's crimson wreath, the poet's chaplet of bays, or the statesman's laurels; though no grand universal truth may at his bidding stand confessed to the world,-though it may never be his to bring to a successful issue a great political revolution-to be the founder of a republic whose name shall be a "distinguished star in the constellation of nations," -yea, more, though his name may never be heard beyond the narrow limits of his own neighborhood, yet is his mission none the less a high and holy one. In the moral and physical world, not only the field of battle, but also the consecrated cause of truth and virtue calls for champions, and the field for doing good is "white unto the harvest;" and if he enlists in the ranks, and his spirit faints not, he may write his name among the stars of heaven. Then trust thyself, O man! "Every heart vibrates to that iron string." Accept thy place in the ranks and throw thyself boldly into the battle tumult of the world. The chief of men is he who stands in the van, fronting the peril which frightens all others back. Set thy ideal standard high; go on from strength to strength, ever upward, onward; aspire to noble acts, heroic work, and true heart-utterance, and thy deeds shall rise up melodiously in a boundless, everlasting Psalm of Triumph! SONG OF SARATOGA.-JOHN G. SAXE. "Pray what do they do at the Springs?" As the magpie or mocking-bird sings, To tell what they do at the Springs. Imprimis, my darling, they drink The waters so sparkling and clear; Though the flavor is none of the best, And the odor exceedingly queer; But the fluid is mingled, you know, With wholesome, medicinal things; So they drink, and they drink, and they drink,— And that's what they do at the Springs! Then with appetites keen as a knife, They hasten to breakfast, or dine; The latter precisely at three, The former from seven till nine. Ye gods! what a rustle and rush, When the eloquent dinner-bell rings! Then they eat, and they eat, and they eat,And that's what they do at the Springs! Now they stroll in the beautiful walks, That never is heard by the breeze; Regardless of conjugal rings: And they flirt, and they flirt, and they flirt,- The drawing-rooms now are ablaze, An arm round a tapering waist, How closely and fondly it clings! So they waltz, and they waltz, and they waltz,— And that's what they do at the Springs! |