Behold, thou art pilot of the ship, and owner of that freighted galleon, Competent, with all thy weakness, to steer into safety or be lost: Compass and chart are in thy hand: roadstead and rocks thou knowest; Thou art warned of reefs and shallows; thou beholdest the harbour and its lights. What? shall thy wantonness or sloth drive the gallant vessel on the breakers? What? shall the helmsman's hand wear upon the black lee shore? Vain is that excuse; thou canst escape: thy mind is responsible for wrong: Vain that murmur; thou mayst live: thy soul is debtor for the right. To-day, in the voyage of thy life down the dark tide of time, Stand boldly to thy tiller, guide thee by the pole-star, and be safe; To-day, passing near the sunken rocks, the quicksands and whirlpools of probation, Leave awhile the rudder to swing round, give the wind its heading, and be wrecked. The crisis of man's destiny is Now, a still recurring danger; Who can tell the trials and temptations coming with the coming hour? Thou standest a target-like Sebastian, and the arrows whistle near thee; Who knoweth when he may be hit? for great is the company of archers. Each breath is burdened with a bidding, and every minute hath its mission; For spirits, good and bad, cluster on the thickly-peopled air: Sin may blast thee, grace may bless thee, good or ill this hour: Chance, and change, and doubt, and fear, are parasites of all. A man's life is a tower, with a staircase of many steps, That, as he toileth upward, crumble successively behind him: No going back; the past is an abyss; no stopping, for the present perisheth; But ever hasting on, precarious on the foothold of To-day; Our cares are all To-day; our joys are all To-day; And in one little word, our life, what is it, but--To-day? [Illustration: Of To-morrow] OF TO-MORROW. [Illustration: "T"] There is a floating island, forward on the stream of time, Buoyant with fermenting air, and borne along the rapids; And on that island is a siren, singing sweetly as she goeth, Her eyes are bright with invitation, and allurement lurketh in her cheeks; Many lovers, vainly pursuing, follow her beckoning finger, Many lovers seek her still, even to the cataract of death. To-morrow is that island, a vain and foolish heritage, And, laughing with seductive lips, Delusion hideth there: Often the precious present is wasted in visions of the future, And coy To-morrow cometh not with prophecies fulfilled.