Some make the world's applauses Their sole reward and aim, Some torture gold to fashion The missed links of life's chain. Strive on, ye band of workers, In faith and courage strong, Knowledge by labour entereth, Through perseverance long; No prize is half so precious As that obtained through pain, No means like self-denial, For perfecting life's chain. Ever a something wanting, Ever, just one link more; Such is the hope-lit watchword Of pilgrims to heaven's shore, Nor till on that shore landed, Will missed links of life's chain Be found, and firmly welded, To sunder ne'er again. * * * * * A PAINFUL HISTORY. Three youths in the heyday of life's hopeful spring, On a bright April morn gaily hied, With three little skiffs, each one made by himself, To skim o'er the silvery tide. In the joy that awaits on all well-performed work, Engaged in by youth, child, or man, Whilst employing the powers which to him God has given, And labouring as well as he can, They pushed from the shore, their young spirits elate. In a trance of enjoyment and pride; For were they not reaping the cherished reward Which to labour is never denied? Far happier than kings, as light-hearted as birds Who warbled spring carols on high, Each guided his skiff o'er the freshening wave,