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Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
* Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Act, act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead !
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footsteps on the sands of time;
Footsteps, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
THERE is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
Shall I have nought that is fair, saith he:
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves;
It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves.
My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,
They shall all bloom in fields of light,
And saints, upon their garments white,
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,