Be true, be true! to nerve your arm
For any good ye wish to do;

To save yourselves from sin and harm,
And win all honours old and new;

To work on hearts as with a charm,—
The maxim is, Be true, be true!

Be true, be true! that easy prize
So loveable to human view,

So laudable beyond the skies,

Alas! is reach'd by very few

The simple ones, though more than wise,

Whose motto is, Be true, be true!

Duty.

I.

DUTY! shorn of which the wisest

And the best were little worth,

How with dignity thou risest

O'er the littleness of earth;

How thou blessest each condition

Shedding peace and glory round,

Even binding hot Ambition

In thy service to be found!

Marking very trifles holy,

And exalting what were mean;

In this thought the poor may revel That obeying Duty's word,

Humblest want is on a level

With my lady or my lord.

III.

Duty, seen in lofty station

As the brightest jewel there, Providence doth bless the nation

Where thy badge its rulers bear;

England! GOD regards with favour

Both thy Queen and People too,

For that Duty's precious savour

Still is found in all they do.

Moving on.

In vain, there is no respite and no rest,

No flagging in our headlong reckless race; In vain with clutching grasp and yearning breast We strive to check the steeds of Time and Space.

All rushes on; no creature stops an hour;

The babe, the boy, the man, the dotard—dies; Perpetual changes vex the wayside flower,

And the great worlds careering through the skies.

Yet is it sad that Beauty scarce can bloom,

Hardly can Wisdom drop one word of truth, Before the sage is humbled to the tomb,

And wrinkles gather round the eyes of youth.

Alas! because it hardens us at heart,

This constant moving-on,-this phantom scene

Of daily hourly meetings soon to part,
And made to be as they had never been.

New hopes, new motives, all things ever new
Expelling all things old, however dear,

Uproot the mind from growing strong and true,
And the poor heart in all its longings sear.

A gloom, a solemn sadness, and a hope-
A mighty hope, but mixed with bitter fear,
All lie within this sad reflection's scope

That nothing-nothing-hath continuance here.