Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Art is long, and Time is fleeting. And our hearts, though stout and brave, In the world's broad field of battle, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Heart within, and God o'er head. Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, Footprints, that perhaps another, Let us, then, be up and doing, -Longfellow. XLII. THE GRAVE. OH, the grave! the grave! It buries every error; covers every defect; extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor handful of earth that lies moldering before him? But the grave of those we loved,-what a place for meditation! There it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, in the daily intercourse of intimacy; there it is that we dwell upon the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled griefs; its noiseless attendants, its mute, watchful assiduities; the last testimonies of expiring love; the feeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh, how thrilling!-pressure of the hand; the faint, faltering accents struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection; the last fond look of the glazing eye, turned upon us, even from the threshold of existence! Aye, go to the gave of buried love and meditate! There settle the account with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kindness or thy truth; if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet; then be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt lie down, sorrowing and repentant, on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter, because unheard and unavailing. Washington Irving. XLIII.-FARMER GRAY. You may envy the joys o' the farmer, Ef you worked in the woods in the winter, With a team o' unruly young oxen, An' feet heavy-loaded with clay- You may dream o' the white-crested daisies, But it gives me a heap o' hard labor But I never git time to look at 'em, You may sing o' the song-birds o' summer: You may write o' the beauties o' natur', Makes a pile o' hard work for the wimmin,— An' the cheeses, so plump in the pantry, When home from the hay-field, in summer, With stars gleaming over my head; When I milk by the light o' my lantern, An' wearily crawl into bed; When I think o' the work o' the morrow, An' worry for fear it might rain, But the corn must be planted in spring-time, Except when we lie in the bed An' the wood must be chopped in the winter, An' the grain must be hauled to the market, But the farmer depends upon only With conscience all spotless and clear, To dwell in a holier sphere; An' the crown that he wears may be brighter, XLIV.-EDMUND BURKE AND HIS SON'S HORSE. IN the decline of Mr. Burke's life, when he was living in retirement on his farm at Beaconfield, the rumor went up to London that he had gone mad, and the fact that was stated in support of this rumor was that he went round his park kissing his cows and horses. A friend, a man of rank and influence, hearing this story, and deeming it of too much importance to be left uncorrected, hastened down to Beaconfield, and sought an interview with the view of ascertaining the truth of the rumor. Mr. Burke entered into conversation with him, and read to him some chapters from his "Letters on a Regicide Peace." His friend immediately saw that though the earthly tenement was verging back to its native dust, the lamp of reason and genius shone with undiminished luster within. He was accordingly more than satisfied as to the object of his coming down, and in a private interview with Mrs. Burke told her what he had come for, and received from her this pathetic explanation: Mr. Burke's only child, a beloved son, had not long before died, leaving behind him a favorite old horse, the companion of his excursions of business and pleasure, when both were young and vigorous. This favorite animal was turned out by Mr. Burke, the father, into the park, with directions to all his servants that he should in every respect be treated as a privileged favorite. Mr. Burke himself, of course, in his morning walks, would often stop to caress the favorite animal. On one occasion, as he was taking his morning walk through the park, he perceived the poor old animal at a distance, and noticed in turn that he was recognized by him. The horse drew nearer and nearer to Mr. Burke, stopped, eyed him with a most pleading look of recognition, which said, as plainly as words could have said: "I have lost him, too," and then the poor dumb beast deliberately laid his head upon Mr. Burke's bosom! Struck by the singularity of the occurrence, moved by the recollection of his son, whom he had never ceased to mourn with a grief that would not be comforted, overwhelmed by the tenderness of the animal, expressed in the mute eloquence of holy Nature's universal language, the illustrious statesman for a moment lost his self-possession, and, clasping his arms around the neck of his son's favorite animal, lifted up that voice which had filled the arches of Westminster Hall with the noblest strains that ever echoed within them, and wept aloud! |