Mineral Point tribune. (Mineral Point, Wis.) 1869-1938, 1875-09-02
Life.

Beneath this starry arch
Naught resteth or Is still,
But all things hold their M arch,
AS If by one great Will;
Moves one, moves all;
Hark to the football
On, on, forever!
Yon sheayes were once but seed;
VIII ripens into deed;
AS eye.drops swell the streams,
Day.thought feeds nightly dreams,
And sorrow tracketh wrong
As echo follows song
On, on, forever!
One summers day fair maiden, flushed
with joy and blooming with youth wan
dered through the woodland gathering
wild flowers; she plucked rose here, a
daisy there and II lily yonder, until her
apron was full and she, tired, sat-singing
the songs that innocent girlhood alone can
sing-upon rock, overhanging rivulet
that ran through the woodland dell, her
feet touching the stream as it rolled muir.
muring by. The birds chirped and sang
their sweetest carols in chorus to the maid.
ems song. All was life life in its highest
type in the maiden--lite in the flowers, life
in the rivulet, life in myriad of forms In
that woodland chirp.
As the maiden sat upon the rock she
drew from her apron lily and dropped it
into the stream; it went whirling, rushing
and dancing down over the tiny waves,
lost in the foam, now rising to view, now
standing, then whirling III an eddy, now
shooting along as if shot from bow, As if
some fairy had given it wings, now gone,
lost to view in the distance.
The woodland rang with the merry
laugh of the maiden as she reached in
her hand and drew out another flower,
and dropped it into the stream that bore
il away on its ioaming bosom Thought
lessly she dropped her flowers one after
the other into the stream until her apron
was empty, and those flowers intend
ed for beautiful bouquets were carried
down the rushing stream. All the while
the maiden's merry laugh rang and echoed
through the woodland and along the
stream.
She looked at the last flower as ii went
rushing down the boiling stream; when
ii was lost to view She reached for another,
but alas they were all gone. She awoke,
and cried: Give me back, oh, stream.
give me back my flowers" But the
stream rolled ON in silent murmurs. heed.
ing not her cry, and the woodland only
Knocked her in answering Back my
flowers"
Thus time, like an evcr-hurrying stream,
is notwithstanding the precious moments
away, those moments that should be
bound into beautiful bouquets, shedding
sweetest fragrance in the family circle in
society, everywhere. Thoughtlessly we
cast them over its boiling bosom to the
eNermore. Al last we awake to find the
flower moments gone, gone to return no
more, We call for the backward flowing
OF time, but only the hooking echo Of
too late' sounds in our ears.
To show Us the worth of these precious
moments, God. most liberal with all other
things, is frugal in the dispensing ofIem;
for He never gives us two moments "a.
gctheT, nor ever grants us a second till
He has withdrawn the first, still keeping
the third in His own hands, SO that we are
uncertain whether We shall have /, or not.
What a varying thing Is the stream of
life, How il sparkleS and glitterS How
ii bounds along It's pebbly bed, sometimes
sporting around all things, ~ :fits essence
were merriment and brightness; some
times flowing solcmnly on, aS il il were
derived from Lethe itself Now il runs
like a liquid diamond along the meadow;
now ii plunges in tume and fury over the
rocks; now il is clear and limpid rs youth
and innocence can make il, now il is
heavy and turbid with the varying streams
OF thought and memory that are flowing in.
10 II, each bringing its store of dizziness
ana pollution rs il tends toward the end.
lis voice, too, varies as ii goes. aow it
roarS amid the obstacles that oppose It's
way, and now il has no tone but tLe dull,
low murmur of exhausted energy.
Our boat glides down the narrow chan.
mel, through the playful murmurjng of
the little brook aud the winding of is
MISSY hlri.rs The trta1.s shni .hni- ln, a.