146 WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER [1630-40. Wrong to himself, and wrong to all Who bear the burthens he hath borne : "A yoke !" up starting he exclaims, "And oh, how meekly worn !" But as he reads Life's riddle still, He feels, with sudden change of mood. The stern, the indomitable will, That never was subdued. The will, not to destroy, but build ! Not the blind Might of old renown, Wliich took the pillars in its grasp. And shook the temple down — But that whose patient energy Works ever upward, without rest, Until the pierced and parted sea Rolls from its coral breast. In the dim fire-light for awhile. His tall form moveth to and fro ; Then by the couch of those he loves. He stops, and bendeth low. Oh, holy love ! oh, blessed kiss ! Ye ask not splendor — bide notpow'r — But in a humble home like this. Ye have your triumph hour ! He sleeps — but even on his dreams Obtrudes the purpose of his soul ; He wanders where the living streams Of knowledge brightly roll ; And where men win their own good ways. Not yield to doubt or dark despair, In dreams his bounding spirit strays — In dreams he triumphs there. With stronger arm, with mightier heart. Than he hath felt or known before, When comes the morrow's hour of toil. He'll leave his humble door. No wavering hence he'll know— no rest Until the new-seen goal be won ; But firm, and calm, and self-possess'd. Bear resolutely on. And this it is that, year by year. Through which nor faith nor hope grows less. Pursued, shall crown his high career With honor and success. This — this it is that marks the man ! Dare thou, then, 'neath whose studious eye This lesson lies, rouse up at once, And on thyself rely ! Give to thy free soul freest thought ; And whatsoe'er it prompts thee do. That manfully, year in, year out. With all thy might pursue. What though thy name may not be heard Afar, or shouted tlu'ough the town, Thou'lt win a higher meed of praise, A worthier renown. Press on, then ! — earth has need of thee ! The metal at the forge is red ; The ax is rusting by the tree ; The grain hangs heavy in the head. Heed not who works not — labor thou! Lay bravely hold, nor pause, nor shrink ! Life's Rubicon is here — and stand Not dubious on the brink! CONSERVATISM. The Owl, he fai*eth well In the shadows of the night ; And it puzzles him to tell Why the Eagle loves the light. Away he floats — away, From the forest dim and old, Wliere he pass'd the gairish day: — The Night doth make him bold ! The wave of his downy wing, As he courses around about. Disturbs no sleeping thing That he findcth in his route.
