'Tis better to give a kindly word Than ever so hard a blow, To know we have by kindness stirr'd The man who was our foe; To feel we have a good intent, Whatever he may feel-- That gentleness with us is meant To make the old wounds heal.
'Tis better to give our wealth away Than let our neighbors want, To help them in their needful day, While they are weak and gaunt; A kindly deed brings kindly thought In hamlet and in city; A little help, we have been taught, Is worth a world of pity.
'Tis better to work and slave and toil, Than lie about and rust; An idle man upon the soil Is one of the very worst. He eats the bread that others earn, And lifts his head so high, As if it was not his concern How others toil'd, or why.
'Tis better to have an humble heart, Living in faith and trust, To act an ever upward part, Remembering we are dust; To let the streams of life run past, Beloved and lovingly, Until we reach in joy at last The great eternal sea.
"God bless the man who first invented sleep!" So Sancho Panza said, and so say I; And bless him, also, that he didn't keep His great discovery to himself; or try To make it--as the lucky fellow might-- A close monopoly by "patent right!"
Yes--bless the man who first invented sleep (I really can't avoid the iteration); But blast the man, with curses loud and deep, Whate'er the rascal's name, or age, or station, Who first invented, and went round advising That artificial cut-off--Early Rising!
"Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed," Observes some solemn, sentimental owl. Maxims like these are very cheaply said; But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl, Pray, just inquire about the rise--and fall, And whether larks have any bed at all!
The "time for honest folks to be in bed," Is in the morning, if I reason right; And he who can not keep his precious head Upon his pillow till 'tis fairly light, And so enjoys his forty morning winks, Is up to knavery; or else--he drinks!
Thomson, who sung about the "Seasons," said It was a glorious thing to _rise_ in season; But then he said it--lying--in his bed At 10 o'clock, A. M.--the very reason He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is, His preaching wasn't sanctioned by his practice.
'Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake-- Awake to duty and awake to truth-- But when, alas! a nice review we take Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth, The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep, Are those we pass'd in childhood, or--asleep!