TRUE HONOURS.
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Every hour that fleets so slowly Has its task to do or bear;Luminous the crown, and holy, When each gem is set with care.
Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond;Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond.
Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but one by oneTake them, lest the chain be broken Ere the pilgrimage be done.
TRUE HONORS.
S my darling tired already, Tired of her day of play?Draw your little stool beside me, Smooth this tangled hair away.Can she put the logs together, Till they make a cheerful blaze?Shall her blind old Uncle tell her Something of his youthful days?Hark! The wind among the cedars Waves their white arms to and fro;I remember how I watched them Sixty Christmas Days ago:Then I dreamt a glorious vision Of great deeds to crown each year;
