For little by little the heart is wearing, Like the wheel of the mill, as the tide goes tearing And plunging hurriedly through my breast, In a network of veins on a nameless quest, From and forth, unto unknown oceans, Bringing its cargoes of fierce emotions, With never a pause or an hour for rest. A MEETING. Quite carelessly I turned the newsy sheet; A song I sang, full many a year ago, Smiled up at me, as in a busy street One meets an old-time friend he used to know. So full it was, that simple little song, Of all the hope, the transport, and the truth, Which to the impetuous morn of life belong, That once again I seemed to grasp my youth. So full it was of that sweet, fancied pain We woo and cherish ere we meet with woe, I felt as one who hears a plaintive strain His mother sang him in the long ago. Up from the grave the years that lay between That song's birthday and my stern present came Like phantom forms and swept across the scene, Bearing their broken dreams of love and fame. Fair hopes and bright ambitions that I knew In that old time, with their ideal grace, Shone for a moment, then were lost to view Behind the dull clouds of the commonplace. With trembling hands I put the sheet away; Ah, little song! the sad and bitter truth Struck like an arrow when we met that day! My life has missed the promise of its youth. EARNESTNESS. The hurry of the times affects us so In this swift rushing hour, we crowd and press And thrust each other backward as we go, And do not pause to lay sufficient stress Upon that good, strong, true word, Earnestness. In our impetuous haste, could we but know Its full, deep meaning, its vast import, oh, Then might we grasp the secret of success! In that receding age when men were great, The bone and sinew of their purpose lay In this one word. God likes an earnest soul-- Too earnest to be eager. Soon or late It leaves the spent horde breathless by the way, And stands serene, triumphant at the goal. A PICTURE. I strolled last eve across the lonely down; One solitary picture struck my eye: A distant ploughboy stood against the sky-- How far he seemed above the noisy town! Upon the bosom of a cloud the sod Laid its bruised cheek as he moved slowly by, And, watching him, I asked myself if I In very truth stood half as near to God. [Illustration:] TWIN-BORN.