And a proverb haunts my mind,

And as a spell is cast:

"The mill will never grind

With the water that is past."

Summer winds revive no more

Leaves strewn over earth and main;

And the sickle ne'er can reap

The gathered grain again;

And the rippling stream flows on,

Tranquil, deep and still,

Never gliding back again

To the water-mill.

Truly speaks the proverb old

With a meaning vast: "The mill will never grind

With the water that is past."

Oh, the wasted hours of life
That have swiftly drifted by!
Oh, the good we might have done,
Gone and lost without a sigh!

Love, that we might once have saved,
By a single kindly word!

Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed,

Perishing unpenned, unheard!

Take the proverb to thy soul—

Take, and clasp it fast:

"The mill will never grind

With the water that is past."

Oh, love thy God and fellow-man,
Thyself consider last;

For come it will when thou must scan

Dark errors of the past;

And when the flight of life is o'er,

And earth recedes from view, And heaven in all its glory shines, 'Midst pure, and good, and true,

Then you will see more truly

The proverb deep and vast:

"The mill will never grind

With the water that is past."

Take the lesson to thyself,

Loving hearts and true;

Golden hours are fleeting by,

Youth is passing, too;

Learn to make the most of life;

Lose no happy day;

Time will ne'er return sweet joys

Neglected-thrown away.

Leave no tender word unsaid,

But love while love shall last;

"The mill will never grind

With the water that is past."

Work while yet the sun doth shine,

Man of strength and will;

Never doth the streamlet glide,

Useless by the mill.

Wait not till to-morrow's sun

Beams brightly on the way;
All that thou canst call thine own
Lies in the phrase "To-day!"
Power, intellect and blooming health,

May not, will not always last:

"The mill will never grind

With the water that is past."

The River and the Tide.

N the bank of a river was seated, one day,

An old man, and close by his side

Was a child, who had paused from his laughing and play To gaze at the stream, as it hurried away

To the sea with the ebb of the tide.

"What see you, my child, in the stream, as it flows

To the ocean so dark and deep?

Are you watching how swift, yet how silent it goes?
Thus hurry our lives, till they sink in repose,

And are lost in a measureless sleep.

"Now listen, my boy! you are young, I am old,

And yet like two rivers are we;

Though the flood-tide of youth from time's ocean is rolled,

Yet it ebbs all too soon, and its waters grow cold,

As it creeps back again to the sea.

"But the river returns!" cried the boy, while his eyes Gleamed bright as the waters below.

"Ah! yes," said the old man; but time, as it flies, Turns the tide of our life, and it never can rise." "But first," said the boy, "it must flow."

Thus, watching its course from the bank of the stream,
They mused, as they sat side by side;

Each read different tales in the river's bright gleam-
One borne with the flow of a glorious dream,

And one going out with the tide.

Labor.

AUSE not to dream of the future before us;

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;

Hark, how creation's deep, musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;

Never the little seed stops in its growing;

More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,

Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing,

Speaks to my soul from out Nature's great heart.
From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower;
From the rough sod comes the soft-breathing flower
From the small insect the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

"Labor is life!"-"Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth!
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon,
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens;

Only the waving wing changes and brightens;

Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys would'st thou keep them in tune.

Labor is rest, from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from the petty vexations that meet us;
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us;
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.

Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow;
Work with stout heart and resolute will.

Droop not, though shame, sin and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that has bound thee; Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness--a clod: