The Good Of It

When any task my hands essay, Wherevrith to fill the eager day, There riscs to my thought alway Tlie hindering question : " Whence the Deed M tliis thy lightly-weighted deed? f oreg3 it- and wlio takcth lieed ' Perforen it - who will praise or blame, Thougli it be wrought with purest aim ? - Done or undone, 'tis all the .same. If cannot surely mucli behoove If in thy hfe's so naïrow groove Tliou uiovest, or thou dost not move. Amid the thousand myriad lives That overcrowd earth's humming hives, What matter if no work survives t)L thy smal] doing?- Who counts, alas! One cricket chirping in the grass The less, when summer time doth pass ? To keep thy song unwritteu ; spare To spill thy music on the air; Let be the stainless canvas bare ! The world is over-dosed with speech ; And who so out of wisdom's reach Aa yet to Jack what thou cantt fcoach 't -A pooi-, proud reasoniag ! Shall the spray üf lern beside the boulder gray, Xhreaued with nioniing opals, say : " Wliole winged flocks their nests have made In yon fiiaat oak : Why should my blade Attord an humble bee lts shade'r1" Or the light breeze sigh, "Loud and deep -lliu muuntain wind tlirough foresta sweep: ÜUit 1 just rock oue rose asleep 't " Or glow-worm raurmur, " So divine, feu noodiiig, sunlight's, mooulight's shine, Wliat iieeds the moth with gleam of mine ?" Because our inusic is not keyed BeethoTèn-wise, thereiore, indeed V'e scora to blow our oaten reek ! Because we may not counterpart The dance and trance ot tíhakapeare's art, We'li stoop to soothe 110 aching heart ! Mock-meekness all ! There doth not live Auy so poor, but they may give - Any so ricli, but may receive. Withhold the very meag'rest dole Hands eau bestow, in part or whole, And we may stiut a starving soul. Wnut then 'i If some poor song of mine Shouid yet prevalí to bnug the shine Back o'er one spirit's duü decline, And for a moment seem to fling A flash about its sun-setting, - I think (God graiuing), 1 may sing ! - N. Y. Independent.