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Flows the ruffled streamlet on,

Tranquil, deep and still; Never gliding back again To the water-mill;

Truly speaks that proverb old

With a meaning vast

"The mill cannot grind

With the water that is past."

Take the lesson to thyself,
True and loving heart;
Golden youth is fleeting by,

Summer hours depart;

Learn to make the most of life,

Lose no happy day,

Time will never bring thee back,

Chances swept away!

Leave no tender word unsaid,

Love, while love shall last;

"The mill cannot grind

With the water that is past."

Work while yet the daylight shines, Man of strength and will!

Never does the streamlet glide

Useless by the mill;

Wait not till to-morrow's sun

Beams upon thy way,

All that thou canst call thine own

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Lies in thy to-day;

Power and intellect and health

May not always last;

"The mill cannot grind

With the water that is past."

Oh, the wasted hours of life
That have drifted by!

Oh, the good that might have been,
Lost without a sigh!

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A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME.

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Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth,
And childhood with its brow of truth;
The rich and poor, on land and sea,
Where will the mighty millions be
A hundred years to come?

We all within our graves shall sleep
A hundred years to come!
No living soul for us wili weep
A hundred years to come!
But other men our lands shall till,
And others then our streets will fill,
While other birds will sing as gay,
As bright the sunshine as to-day
A hundred years to come!

WILLIAM GOLDSMITH

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"See'st thou that carpet, not half done, Which thou, dear James, hast well begun? Behold the wild confusion there!

So rude the mass, it makes one stare.

"A stranger, ignorant of the trade,
Would say no meaning's there conveyed;
For where's the middle, where's the border?
The carpet now is all disorder."

Quoth James, "My work is yet in bits,
-But still in every part it fits;
Besides, you reason like a lout,
Why, man, that carpet 's inside out!

Says John "Thou say'st the thing I mean,
And now I hope to cure thy spleen:

The world, which clouds thy soul with
doubt,

Is but a carpet inside out.

"As when we view these shreds and ends, We know not what the whole intends;

So when on earth things look but odd,
They 're working still some scheme of God.

"No plan, no pattern can we trace;
All wants proportion, truth, and grace;
The motley mixture we deride,
Nor see the beauteous upper side.

"But when we reach the world of light,
And view these works of God aright,
Then shall we see the whole design,
And own the Workman is divine.

"What now seem random strokes, will there
All order and design appear;

Then shall we praise what here we spurned,
For there the carpet will be turned."

"Thou'rt right," quoth James, "no more I'll grumble,

That this world is so strange a jumble;
My impious doubts are put to flight,
For my own carpet sets me right.

HANNAH MORE.

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every instinct, or sense, has an end or design, and every emotion in man has its object and direction, we must conclude that the desire of communing with God is but a test of his being destined for a future existence, and the longing after immortality the promise of it.

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