of the race,
The toiling nation's friend,
For pity smiles upon his face
With joys that never end;
He tears away the iron gyves
That chain our best repose,
And makes the deserts of our lives
To blossom as the rose.

He pours his balms into the wound
Of bosom weak and sad,
Till holy pleasures flit around
And all the heart is glad;
Till all is sweet that here before
Was wrapped in bitter woe,
And only gladness hurries o'er
The millions here below.

Great man he is, and him I give
That gratitude of mine,
Which must in brilliance while I live
With brightest glory shine,
To wreathe a radiance always gay
Around the worthy breast
Of him who first discovered play
And gave the nations rest.

MAKE THE MOST OF THIS LIFE.

Make the most of this life; where the shadow reposes
The beams of the summer shall gather in glee,
And the snow on the graves of the lilies and roses
But cradles the blooms that shall whiten the lea;
Though the hopes of the heart be encircled with sorrow
And billows of wretchedness mutter and roll,
There shall come with the morn of the bountiful morrow
The pleasures that gladden the desolate soul.

Make the most of this life; where the carols are sleeping
That rose in their rapture from lips of the spring,
That awakened the world from its winter of weeping,
Sweet songs shall be sung by the birds on the wing.
Though the bosom be dark with the dirges of sadness
And solitudes gather so heavy and lone,
There shall float from the musical meadows of gladness
The ravishing measures that banish each groan.

Make the most of this life; 'tis a garden of beauty,
Where, blushing, the blossoms grow tenderly-sweet,
While they brighten the years of man's labor and duty
And scatter the kisses of love at his feet;
'Tis a world that is wild with the laughter of living
When hands do the brotherly kindness they can,
And its hearts are the treasures of tenderness giving
To soften and sweeten the nature of man.

Make the most of this life; there is happiness in it,
When souls find a theme for their jubilant song;
There is music, when angels are taught to begin it,
Which never was marred with a murmur of wrong;
There are voices that sing in their sweetness forever,
And mutter no strains of contention or strife,
Neither burden the hours with the