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HARRIET O. NELSON.
They say that the sculptor wrought from Some craving for an unknown good, That in the spirit fluttered,
Of his youth's lost love, of his promised bride,
And when he had added the last sad grace
To the features, he dropped his chisel and died.
Our footsteps sought the humble house
All fail to raise my sluggish sense
My mind goes back the winding track
Of years whose flight hath left me lonely, Once more my soul is upward drawn, And hears the spirit only.
W. J. LINTON.
MIDWINTER comes to-morrow
I thank thee, Lord!-the whiteness
Shall keep some glint of brightness,
THE perfect sight of duty; thought which moulds
A rounded life, and its true aims beholds.
Obeisance unto greatness understood;
The mountain's image trembling in the lake:
The shadow of a slave who turns his back On the light, and cries, "The universe is black!"
Look up. Perhaps the mountain does not quake.
One of the stairs to heaven. Halt not
What you have trampled on.
Who knows?-Each year, as does the wheat-seed, dies;
And so God harvests his eternities.
The condonation of a wrong. What
Even the wrong-doers are our brothermen!
A mule with blinkers. Ay, he goes quite straight,
Runs at the gate-post, and will miss the gate.
The saddle-girth of valor. Thou art wise
Not the mere holding a great flag unfurled,
But making it the goodliest in the world.
Be narrow! -as the bud, the flame, the Think what God doth for man; so mayst But narrow in thy aim, not at thy heart. dart;
How godlike service is, and serve also.
Cornelia's jewels; blind old Milton's
The stew of a slave w to tu ms hi, back On the light, sa cris, “The unverse is black?
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