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this. "Toiling in tears, aspiring in despair,” is but a poor preparation for the enjoyment of popular honors or the performance of public trusts. And there is an exceedingly bet. ter way. It is to climb, young men, with buoyant heart, the hill of knowledge. It is to boldly scale the Alps and Apennines which ever rear themselves in your pathway. It is to feel your sinews strengthen, as they will, with every obstacle you surmount. It is to build yourself,—developing mental strength, untiring energy, sleepless zeal, fervent patriotism, and earnest principle,–until the public shall feel that you are the man they need, and that they must command you into the public service.
And if perchance that call should not happen to come, and you should be forced to remain an American sovereign instead of becoming a public servant, you shall have your reward in the rich stores of knowledge you have thus collected, and which shall ever be at your command. More valuable than earthly treasure,--while fleets may sink, and storehouses consume, and banks may totter, and riches flee, the intellectual investments you have thus made will be permanent and enduring, unfailing as the constant flow of Niagara or Amazon-a bank whose dividends are perpetual, whose wealth is undiminished however frequent the drafts upon it; which, though moth may impair, yet thieves cannot break through nor steal.
Nor will you be able to fill these storehouses to their full. Pour into a glass a stream of water, and at last it fills to the brim and will not hold another drop. But you may pour into your mind, through a whole lifetime, streams of knowledge from every conceivable quarter, and not only shall it never be full, but it will constantly thirst for more, and welcome each fresh supply with a greater joy.
Nay, more, to all around you may impart of these gladdening streams which have so fertilized your own mind, and yet, like the candle from which a thousand other candles may be lit without diminishing its flame, your supply shall not be impaired. On the contrary, your knowledge, as you add to it, will itself attract still more as it widens your realm of thought; and thus will you realize in your own life the parable of the Ten Talents, for“ to him that hath shall be given.”
JOE JONES.–A PARODY.
Don't you remember lame Sally, Joe Jones
Lame Sally, whose nose was so brown?
And went into fits at your frown?
Where the goslings are learning to swim,
And there by mistake tumbled in.
Under old Sim's brush fence, Joe Jones,
That winds at the foot of the hill,
Grinding cider at Appleton's mill;
The rafters fell on to a cow,
Are the lords of the cider-mill now.
Do you remember the pig-pen of logs, Joe Jones,
Which stood on the path to the barn? And the shirt button trees, where they grew on the boughs,
Which we sewed on our jackets with yarn?
And the lightning the tree overcome;
Grow thistles as big as your thumb.
Don't you remember the school, Joe Jones?
And the master who wore the old wig?
Where we played with Aunt (atharine's pig?
The brook with the crook is now dry,
Have grown up ever so high.
There's a change in the things I love, Joe Jones;
They have changed from the good to the bad-
I'd like to go home to my dad.
Since I knocked off your nose with a rail;
Joe Jones of the Hurricane Gale!
THE VOICES AT THE THRONE.-T. WESTWOOD.
A little child,
A seraph by the throne
But even then,
And when the seraph's song Had reached its close, and o'er the golden lyre Silence hung brooding, -when the eternal courts Rang with the echoes of his chant sublime, Still through the abysmal space that wandering voice Can floating upward from its world afar, Still murmured sweet on the celestial air, “Praise God! Praise God!”
If we knew the cares and crosses,
Crowded round our neighbor's way;
Sorely grievous day by day,
For the lack of thrist and gain,
Leaving on our lives a stain?
IIeld by gentle blessing there,
In our blind and weak despair?
Lying on the dewy grass,
Just in mercy flitting past?
Quivering through the heart of pain
Back to haunts of vice and shame?
Joy has many a break of woe,
And the blessed angels know.
For the key to other lives,
Cherish good that still survives;
Soar to realms of light again,
As we judged our fellow-men.”
HOW JAMIE CAME HOME.--Will M. CARLETOX,
Come, mother, set the kettle on,
Something to eat,
And make it neat,
Five were the years,
With hopes and fears,
Five were the years,
With blood and tears,
Mother well knows
Just how it goes,