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When the bounding beat of the heart of love,
And the springing step, grow slow;
Lies dark on the path below,
And he turns where a Star is dawning,
'It will all be right in the morning!'
When ‘the strong man armed,' in the middle-watch,
From life’s dim deck is gazing,
A gleam of the day-beam's blazing;
He heeds not the dark ocean yawning;
'It will all be right in the morning!!
When the battle is done, the harp unstrung,
Its music trembling-dying;
And he longs in the grave to be lying,
He had wept or waited the dawning: *They do love there for aye—I'll be thine as of yore
It will all be right in the morning!'
Thus all through the world, by ship and by shore;
Where the mother bends over
Where the eyes of the lover
A welcome, a wail, or a warning,
where heard : 'It will all be right in the morning!'
Death itself is a great waiting ; there is no more work nor device'-the laboring, which is the living, is subtracted, and we have that dread, dumb and dusty remainder,' they call death.
Some body, maybe, who wears a heart-a piece of extravagance, too, as the world goes--may analyze this compound of living, and find no love in it, and eschew the definition, and set me down as no philosopher. Laboring is loving, and loving is a good, strong, healthful action of the heart ; something quick, but not too quick ; something warm, but not feverish.
Work, and the heart beats ; the harder you work, the faster it plays, and one is just in the condition to love, when he is just in the condition to labor. Some people are too lazy to love, and so they wait till they die, and keep waiting, Heaven knows how long !
• No Room FOR Two!' was the exclamation of some insider, the other morning, as two persons were endeavoring to demonstrate that the capacity of an omnibus has no such property as impenetrability, by crowding into a carriage already having its prescribed six on a side. And so they retreated; bang, went the door, crack, went the whip, and away rolled the omnibus, toward La Porte, leaving the twain to go, emphatically, by private conveyance.'
No room for two! An omnibus, 'all full inside, is not the only place in the world where there is no room for two.
Ambition that, through seas incarnadine,' has attained power, can bear no brother near the throne,' for there's no room for two.
Avarice, that has grown lean and hungry, as he ministered to the golden god he has set up and worshipped, has no place in his soul for sympathy; with him, there is no room for two.
Purpose, whose clear and single eyes descry a signal on the dim outline of the swelling future, and who
marches steadily on until he reaches it, says, to all that can divert, distract, delay, 'there is no room for two.'
Youthful Love, as she sets up a new presence in the shrine of her heart, “ made in the image of a creature of dust, and surrounds it with all the offerings of a spirit affluent in generous affections, whispers to herself, as she does so, there's no room for two.'
He who has waited and wept during lingering and wearisome years, for the ripening of some blessing, that shall crown his life with a golden harvest at last, takes up the word, when that blessing comes, and exclaims, in the fulness of his heart, 'there's no room for two!'
And when we all—as all must-shall, one by one, lie down, we trust' to pleasant dreams, still comes that lonely voice, as eloquent as ever, “there's no room for two!'
As the song has it, in its sweet refrain,
"There's nae room for twa, ye ken,
There's nae room for twa;
Has nae room for twa.
“There's nae room for twa, ye ken,
There's nae room for twa;
Has nae room for twa.'
T\e Erammar of Life.
Long time ago,' some day this month-you and I should remember exactly—a man was born, whose name has been to the juvenile world'a household word;' sometimes a word of terror, but now, as I remember it, a word to conjure with ; to wave up scenes and forms long faded and crumbled. LINDLEY MURRAY! Did you ever hear of him? And do you not remember his little book, that like another · little book,' was “bitter,' and never sweet at all? And don't you recollect how firmly it was bound, old Ironsides that it was, and what was on the fly-leaf-John, or James, or David Somebody, ‘his book,' and that Lochiel-like couplet:
"Steal not this book, my honest friend,
And who printed it, H. & E. Phinney,' and the year, 1800 and something ?
Shut your eyes now, and you can see every page of that old Grammar; just where the noun began, and the 'verb to be,' and Syntax, with its terrible code of twenty-two, exactly twenty-two rules.