Ah, the sun comes up in the east And the sun goes down in the west. And man to me is a heartless beast And the world has only a savage breast! STANZAS. Put not trust nor tenderness to sleep, In sorrow sad; The heart, in which a little love may creep, Is not all bad. The darkest hours that wear a wondrous gloom, Are somewhat light, If but one ray of brilliancy illume The brooding night. The field in which the weed and bramble thrive Has some of good, If but a single blossom struggling live Amid the rude. The ocean vast is not all desolate, The worlds between, If on its waters bearing human freight One sail is seen. All is not harsh and cold amid the wood, If warbled song Resound, how feebly, through the solitude Of tangled wrong. The desert, barren, bleak, a waste of sand Does never spread, If spear of grass in verdure green expand Above the dead. Then put not trust nor tenderness to sleep In sorrow sad; The heart in which a little love may creep Is not all bad. THE WAY OF THE WORLD. Since Adam's first sin in the garden of song, Where the hopes of the race were empearled, Whenever a mortal does anything wrong, It is only the way of the world! If statesmen forget all the pledges they made, And the people to evils are hurled,-- Excuse their misdeeds! 'Tis a trick of the trade, And is only the way of the world! If bankers, confusing distinctions of wealth, Have your gold to their own pockets whirled, And then gone to Europe for pleasure and health-- It is only the way of the world. If preachers, forgetting the Master of old And the banner of light He unfurled, Elope with the fairest ewe-lambs of the fold,-- It is only the way of the world. If merchants, unscrupulous, cheat with a will While their lips are at honesty curled,-- Harsh blame, hie away! And your censure, be still! It is only the way of the world! The way of the world! What a happy excuse For the faults and the follies unfurled! Bind virtue securely! The vices turn loose! 'Tis the way--'tis the way--of the world! MY SHADOW AND I. A something, not of earth or sky, Beside me walks the ways I go, And I--I never truly know, If I am it or it is I. It soothes me with its tender speech, It guides me with its gentle hand, But I--I can not understand The links that bind us each to each. I hear the songs of golden days Fall softly on the saddened years, But know not whose the hungry ears First feasted on the roundelays. I feel the hopes, the yearnings brave, Within my bosom surge and roll, But know not whose the Master Soul That called their glories from the grave.