The Sedalia weekly bazoo. [volume] (Sedalia, Mo.) 187?-1904, 1883-02-06

February sun will soon rise IN the
saxtern horizon. Labor will welcome
the blessed truce. and the frosty stars
shine ont gloriouFly over the slunber
Of the Edenic curse. Gentle hands
will light urns Of incense. Lave will
return to his deserted fanes, and the
holy sbrines of the household rejoice
in the fresh garlands of sfection.
But then, when the weary mills
have ceased their grinding, and the
weekday clamor has faded into soft
music and ripping laughter. some trist
full Thoughts will come tosus az We
gather in the light Of the rose-tin;ed
lares. The low waiIing of regret can
not be wholly husbed when We remen
Der the past, and when We question
the future warning voice il waited
10 us through the smoke Of Delphi.
The fruits Of cur best lahors turn TO
ashes in our grasp, and contentment
j. the prize of the laureled gods and
Olympic calm. Leaving out of sight
the great ills that make shipwreck OF
our fortunes. the human spirit is c'n-
tiaually bruised on the wheel Of daily
routine, and the shimmeriDg mirage
Of hope moeks Ne With the dreams of
Tsptalus. How often, when we heap
eur rustiing sheaves OF the week end,
does the heart turn upon itself With
the despa,ring cry, what is all this
worth! And sll along the fretful
path of toll, prosper as We may, do We
sigh with the sweet Resaiind Of Shakes
peare, @ hcw full of briers is this
working day world ="
The truth seems TO he that most
men, boas, as they will Of the form
divine and star kissed front, are driven
like cattle along the dusty highways
Of time and forever fa;l TO grasp the
Hue theory of life. Means are almosI
universally mistaken for ends and
falser idols than those of wood and
stone are wrapped in the fiery worship
of souls astrsy. The plains Of exist
ence are desoIate with for>aken camps,
and the vain pursuit of fleeing and
changing geais has tracked the drift
ing sands until The winds sigh and
the waters sweep to the sad threnodies
Of broken hearts. The splendid son of
Philip. crowned with victory from the
Issus to the Nile, bowed upon his
sword and vept because there were no
more worlds 10 conquer, and the grief
of the crested soldier is type Of the
sorrow that comes 10 all, or nearly all,
that climb and combat on the windy
heights. The chaplets Of victory with,
IN the armed hands that seize them,
and the rich glow of conflict darkens
into shadow when the foe is van
euished and the retreat is sounded.
What, then, is the true theory of
life! Longfellow has bleathed it on
his murmuring Tyre:
Mot enjoyment and not sorrow,
Is our destined end nr way,
But to live tn At each to morrow
Find us farther than today
Success is q word ofcloudy meaning
and most of us have lived long enough
10 know that it does not consist in vast
possessions or proud attainments.
Gold mocks its gatherers in the end,
and the stormy coasts of fame are
misted with the gloom of chiefs and
heroes. Labor is at once our doom
and guerdon-labor and the growth and
culture that result from labor. And
by this we do not me3n the feverish
and bitter struggle for some phantom
good, but the genial and moderate toll
that wins bread and shell er, and yet
has time to stoop for the violet and
listen to the thrush. These hands of
ours may not be peacefully folded un-
til the last white sleep, when the lips
are cold and the heart il still. There
is ne hating place this side of the
yray side of eternity. The brilliant