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 pangs of endeavor,
When we, with our deeds, make the most of this life.
"THE SONGS THAT MOTHER USED TO SING."
The songs that mother used to sing!
How tenderly those ditties roll,
And to the dirges in my soul
The happy notes of gladness bring!
Where'er my vagrant feet may roam
From pleasures of my childhood's home,
This life of mine with rapture throngs,
When thinking of my mother's songs.
They were not made of magic lays;
No perfect melodies were found,
That with the strains of fairy sound
Would charm the stranger's ear to praise;
But I can never hope to meet
Another music half so sweet,
And all my longing love will cling
To songs that mother used to sing.
With gentleness of crooning cries,
She freed the aching limbs from pain,
And lulled the eyes to sleep again
With sweetness of her lullabies.
Love mingled with her tender voice
In tones that made the heart rejoice,
And Heaven's music seemed to ring
In songs that mother used to sing.
Though years have passed, they still impart
Glad warbles to the hours of woe,
And their mute carols fondly throw
The sacred raptures o'er my heart;
Until my locks are thin and gray
Deep in my soul will sound alway,
And full of joy will ever spring
The songs that mother used to sing.
"QUAFF THE GLASS, THE WINE IS RED."
Quaff the glass, the wine is red,
And the rose of youth is glowing,
While the toils of life are fled
And the snows of age are going;
Quaff it with a hearty will,
Quaff it deep and quaff forever;
Wine will every sorrow kill,
And destroy the pleasures never.
When the heart beats sad and low,
Drink its gladness like a river;
When the soul is weak with woe,
Quaff and be a cheerful liver;
Never, never, life, despair,
While a cup of hope is nigh thee;
Bend not under loads of care
While the fount of joy is by thee!
If the fickle friendships end
And thy fortune be a sad one,
Claim, O, claim, as truest friend,
Ruby wine, the sweet and glad one!
If thy love hath proven cold,
Leave her, leave her, for the new one;
Wine is never false for gold;
Friend to friend, a tried and true one!
Let the cynics curse and rave;
This must be a life of pleasure;
Fill a bumper! He's the knave
Who would scorn joy's fullest measure;
Quaff the glass, the wine is red;
Hour by hour the days are going;
Wine is yet the fountain head
From which pleasure's tide is flowing