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A PSALM OF LIFE. What the heart of the young man said to the psalmist.

Teil me not in mournful numbers "Life is but an empty dream !" For the soul is dead that slumbers And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest" Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle I Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead ! Act — act in the living present ! Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime And, departing, leave behind us Footprints in the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.