In this subtle sense of being, Newly stirred in every vein, I can feel a throb electric-- Pleasure half allied with pain. 'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful, So bewildering, yet brave, To be king in every conflict Where before I crouched a slave! 'Tis so glorious to be conscious Of a growing power within Stronger than the rallying forces Of a charged and marshaled sin! Never in those old romances Felt I half the thrill of life That I feel within me stirring, Standing in this place of strife. O those olden days of dalliance, When I wantoned with my fate; When I trifled with the knowledge That had well-nigh come too late. Yet, my soul, look not behind thee; Thou hast work to do at last; Let the brave toil of the present Overarch the crumbling past. Build thy great acts high and higher; Build them on the conquered sod Where thy weakness first fell bleeding, And thy first prayer rose to God. --Caroline Atherton Mason. SMALL BEGINNINGS A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows; And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore. A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside. A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill, It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still! A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown--a transitory breath-- It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last! --Charles Mackay. THE CHOIR INVISIBLE