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!