Our lives are what we make them—human will Moulds human destiny—spirits on earth But leave and bud, the blossom is the Future’s— Earth, like a cunning sculptor, fashioneth The form and features of Eternity. Like Jacob’s dream-known angels we can rise Upon “celestial stairs” to his and their fruition— Or, like to him who burned and glowed in Heaven, Be quenched amid the mists of endless night. . . . . . . . . . As thou shalt sow, man-brother, she shall glean— Like maketh like—the seed thou scatterest Into Life’s furrows shall produce its kind In generous abundance. Oh! reflect That thou art sowing for Eternity—that this Thine earthly labor shall be known on high: _For as thou sowest, Memory will glean—_ _And as she gleans so shall thy portion be_. Her store-house shall be opened—from its depths Her treasured evidence shall be produced, Hoary with years, yet firm and forcible. All else is worthless—but, if thou hast left Upon thy pathway pure and sterling grain, And Memory’s hand has gathered it for thee, Then shalt thou tread the golden streets of Heaven, And thy clear brow shall wear a seraph’s crown. Scatter, oh! scatter on thine earthly way The perfect seed of Goodness, Truth and Love: That, when thou meetest Memory on high, Bearing the tokens of thy life’s employ, Thou shalt embrace her as an olden friend:— And, counted with the angels, shalt remain In the eternal childhood of the skies. * * * * * [Illustration: COME REST IN THIS BOSOM.] * * * * * GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES. NO. III.—COME REST IN THIS BOSOM. [SEE ENGRAVING.] WHILE engaged in writing songs to the native airs of his country, Moore, in a letter to the Countess of Donegal, makes these remarks on Irish music: