Inspired with supernatural power
  He plays a melody,
Forgetting all the terrors of
  His mortal malady;
And, as of yore, his soul once more
  Is with the gay and free.

Something responsive in the soul
  Wakes with melodious sound
A lively melody that makes
  The languid pulse rebound,
While recollection takes the mind
  Through many a happy round.

Now fast, now slow, he draws the bow
  To suit his changing will;
A march, a waltz, a polka, and
  An intricate quadrille,
Each in its turn is rendered with
  An artist’s ready skill.

With failing strength he strikes at length
  His favorite—­“Home, Sweet Home;”
His dreamy spirit ceases with
  The pleasing past to roam,
And, through the future, seems to rise
  Up, up to Heaven’s high dome.

And mingling with his violin
  He hears the joyful strains
That vibrate o’er angelic hosts,
  Where song supernal reigns! 
Oh! glimpse of glory! lifting him
  Above all mortal pains.

The last sweet note of that sweet tune
  Within the room has died—­
And now he’s playing on the harp
  Upon the other side
Of death’s dark river, safe and free,
  Among the glorified.

ADVICE TO AN AMBITIOUS YOUTH.

You look with joy to-day along life’s vista clear,
And great will be your deeds through many a happy year,
And smiling friends will come to crown with glad acclaim
A hero, when you reach the glittering heights of fame.

Your life will be above the common herd, I trow,
You will not toil and drudge as they are doing now: 
Success attend your steps; a word I would not say
To chill your warmest hopes, or shade your sunny way.

Your mark is high, my child, then aim your arrow straight,
The world has need to-day, of heroes good and great,
You feel so strong; and wish life’s battle would begin,
You’ll find a chance ere long, to do your best and win.

But may be you will fail, ’tis ten to one you will,
And men will laugh, to see your lack of pluck and skill,
Perhaps you will not have one mighty thing to do;
But many little things will prove if you are true.

To carry brick and stone for someone else’s wall,
To do the hardest part and get no praise at all,
To see a weaker man upheld by circumstance,
And find the path hedged high, just when you would advance;

Or, in the jostling crowd, to slip, and fall, and see,
How many men will scoff at your adversity,
And though your heart may ache, you must not shed a tear,
But plan, and push, and work, and smother all your fear.

No darling mother then can sympathize with you,—­
No father when you stick, will kindly pull you through;
Through years of grasping toil the wealth you gain, and fame,
May vanish all, and leave you poverty and shame.