The wedge is driven home,—and the saw is at its heart,-and lo, with solemn slowness, The shuddering monarch riseth from his throne, toppled with a crash,— and is fallen! Now, shall the mangled stump teach proud man a lesson; Now, can we from that elm-tree's sap distill the wine of Truth. Heed ye those hundred rings, concentric from the core, These be the gathering of yesterdays, present all to-day, This is the tree's judgment, self-history that cannot be gainsaid: Seven years agone there was a drought,—and the seventh ring is narrowed; The fifth from hence was half a deluge,—the fifth is cellular and broad. Thus, Man, thou art a result, the growth of many yesterdays, That stamp thy secret soul with marks of weal or woe: Thou art an almanac of self, the living record of thy deeds; Spirit hath its scars as well as body, sore and aching in their season: Here is a knot,-it was a crime; there is a canker,-selfishness; Lo, here, the heart-wood rotten; lo, there, perchance, the sap-wood sound. Nature teacheth not in vain; thy works are in thee, of thee; Some present evil bent hath grown of older errors; And what if thou be walking now uprightly? Salve not thy wounds with poison, As if a petty goodness of to-day hath blotted out the sin of yesterday: It is well, thou hast life and light; and the Hewer showeth mercy, Dressing the root, pruning the branch, and looking for thy tardy fruits; But, even here, as thou standest, cheerful belike and careless, The stains of ancient evil are upon thee, the record of thy wrong is in thee: For, a curse of many yesterdays is thine, many yesterdays of sin, Shall then a man reck nothing, but hurl mad defiance at his Judge, Knowing that less than an omnipotent cannot make the has been, not been? He ought,- -so Satan spake; he must,-so Atheism urgeth; He may, it was the libertine's thought; he doth,—the bad world said it. But thou of humbler heart, thou student wiser for simplicity, While nature warneth thee betimes, heed the loving counsel of Religion. True, this change is good, and penitence most precious; But trust not thou thy change, nor rest upon repentance; For we all are corrupted at the core, smooth as surface seemeth; What health can bloom in a beautiful skin, when rottenness hath fed upon the bones? And guilt is parcel of us all; not thou, sweet nursling of affection, Art spotless, though so passing fair,-nor thou, mild patriarch of virtue. Behold then the better Tree of Life, free unto us all for grafting, For he giveth freely, as a King, asking only thanks for mercy. Yea, for standing unatoned, the soul is a bicon on the prairie, Grafted on the living Tree that was before a yesterday; No refuge of a younger birth than one that saw creation, Can hide the child of time from still condemning yesterday. There is the Sanctuary-city, mocking at the wrath of thine Avenger, Close at hand, with its wicket on the latch; haste for thy life, poor hunted one! The gladiator, Guilt, fighteth as of old, armed with net and dagger; Snaring in the mesh of yesterdays, stabbing with the poniard of to-day: Fly, thy sword is broken at the hilt; fly, thy shield is shivered; Leap the barriers and baffle him; the arena of the past is his. The bounds of Guilt are the cycles of Time; thou must be safe within Eternity; The arms of God alone shall rescue thee from Yesterday. OF TO-DAY. Now, is the constant syllable ticking from the clock of time, Now, is the watchword of the wise, Now, is on the banner of the prudent. Cherish thy to-day and prize it well, or ever it be gulfed into the past, Husband it, for who can promise if it shall have a morrow? Behold thou art,—it is enough; that present care be thine; Leave thou the past to thy Redeemer, intrust the future to thy Friend; Last night died its day; and the deeds thereof were judged: Thou didst lay thee down as in a shroud, in darkness and death-like slumber; But at the trumpet of this morn, waking the world to resurrection, Fear, lest folly give thee cause to mourn its passing presence, For, To-day the lists are set, and thou must bear thee bravely, To-day, is thy watch, O sentinel; to-day thy reprieve, O captive; For the potter's clay is in thy hands,—to mould it or to mar it at thy will, O bright presence of To-day, let me wrestle with thee, gracious angel, Behold, thou art pilot of the ship, and owner of that freighted galleon. its lights. What? shall thy wantonness or sloth drive the gallant vessel on the breakers? What? shall the helmsman's hand wear upon the black lee shore ? Vain is that excuse; thou canst escape: thy mind is responsible for wrong: Vain that murmur; thou may'st live: thy soul is debtor for the right. Stand boldly to thy tiller, guide thee by the pole-star, and be safe; To-day, passing near the sunken-rocks, the quicksands and whirlpools of probation, Leave awhile the rudder to swing round, give the wind its heading, and be wrecked. The crisis of man's destiny is Now, a still recurring danger: 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, 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: |