'Mid good and ill, 'twixt hope and fear,
Thro' dang'rous channels oft we steer,
With reckless force;
But self-made ills make life's career
A rougher course.

The world is but a human hive;
To keep the varied swarm alive,
Its working bees must toil and strive,
While others feast.
The lazy drones appear to thrive,
Yet work the least.

The world appears a battle-field,
The stronger rule, the weaker yield,
The golden nerves too often wield
The power which leads,
While justice' scales are oft conceal'd
By selfish deeds.

Yet still we strive midst hopes and fears,
With pleasure's smiles and sorrow's tears,
And tho' our bustling life appears
A transient breath,
It seems possess'd of endless years
'Twixt us and death.

The poor man toils for daily bread;
By him the rich are clothed and fed,
Yet life's to them a greater dread,
Or idle pest,
Their downy couch too oft a bed
Of sleepless rest.

How many a life's an idle waste,
Its destined glory seems disgraced,
Its vile possessor has defaced
The man divine,
That not a single mark is traced
Of God's design.

Man's but a child, a restless boy,
His life a game, the world his toy,
He strives for something to enjoy
Unjoy'd before,
Tho' vicious tastes and passions cloy
He longs for more.

The lust for gold, the love of fame,
The baser passions oft inflame,
And blindly masks the honest name
Of moral worth,
When life exceeds no higher aim
Than this vile earth.

Our souls the golden god inspires,
And feeds the life-destroying fires,
Until the fevered heart desires
With selfish greed,
More than it actually requires
For nature's need.

Life's hardest ills its spirit braves,
O'er mountain-crags and ocean-waves,
Then make ourselves the worst of slaves,
A slave to self,
To satisfy the thirst that craves
For yellow pelf.

The golden wand with magic art
Throws out the power to charm the heart,
But ah, we feel its bitter smart
When selfish greed
Has robb'd from life that better part
We so much need.

Alas, when gold absorbs our