the hint until _after_ he kicks!

A PSALM OF LIFE.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,"
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act that each to-morrow,
Find us farther than to-day.

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.
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
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
Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, 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,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
Learn to labour and to wait.

THE LAST MAN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, the sun himself must die,
before this mortal shall assume its immortality! I saw a vision in my
sleep that gave my spirit strength to sweep adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould that shall Creation's death behold, as
Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, the earth with
age was wan; the skeletons of nations were around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight--the brands still rusted in their bony
hands; in plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound or
tread, and ships were drifting with the dead to shores where all was
dumb. Yet, prophet-like, that Lone One stood, with dauntless words and
high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm passed
by, saying--"We are twins in death, proud Sun! thy face is cold, thy
race is run, 'tis mercy bids thee go; for thou ten thousand years hast
seen the tide of human tears--that shall no longer flow. What though
beneath thee, man put forth his pomp, his pride, his skill; and arts
that made