“And with joy the stars perform their shining, And the sea its long-silvered roll; For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting All the fever of some differing soul. “Rounded by themselves, and unregardful In what state God’s other works may be, In their own tasks all their powers pouring, These attain the mighty life you see.” O air-born voice! long since, severely clear, A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear; “Resolve to be thyself, and know that he Who finds himself loses his misery.” —_Matthew Arnold._ THE JULEP ’Tis said that the gods on Olympus of old— And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt?— One night at their revels by Bacchus were told That the last butt of nectar had somehow run out. But determined to send ’round the goblet once more, They sent to the fair immortals for aid In composing a draught which, till drinking was o’er, Should throw every wine ever drunk in the shade. Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded the corn; And the spirit that dwells in each amber-hued grain, And which first had its birth in the dews of the morn, Was taught to steal out in bright dew drops again. Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board Lay scattered profusely in everyone’s reach, When called on a tribute to cull from her hoard, Expressed the mild juice of the delicate peach. The spirits were mingled, while Venus looked on With glances so fraught with sweet, magical power That the honey of Hybla e’en when it was gone Has never been wiped from the draught till this hour. Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy took And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl, All dripping and wet, as it came from the brook, The herb whose aroma should flavor the whole. The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim. Yet something yet wanted, they all did bewail, But juleps the drink of immortals became When Jove himself added a handful of hail. —_Hoffman._ HOW WE RISE Heaven is not reached at a single bound, But we build the ladder by which we rise From the lowly earth to the vaulted skies. And we mount to the summit round by round. I count this thing to be grandly true, That a noble deed is a step toward God, Lifting the soul from the common sod To a purer air and a broader view. We rise by the things that are under our feet, By what we have mastered of greed and gain, By the pride deposed and the passion slain, And the vanquished ills that we hourly meet. We hope, we aspire, we resolve, we trust, When the morning calls us to life and light; But our hearts grow weary, and ere the night Our lives are trailing in sordid dust.