HUMAN LIFE.

THE lark has sung his carol in the sky;

The bees have hummed their noon-tide lullaby.

Still in the vale the village-bells ring round,

Still in Llewellyn-hall the jests resound:

For now the caudle-cup is circling there,

Now, glad at heart, the gossips breathe their prayer,

And, crowding, stop the cradle to admire

The babe, the sleeping image of his sire.

A few short years-and then these sounds shall hail

The day again, and gladness fill the vale;

So on the child a youth, the youth a man,
Eager to run the race his fathers ran.

Then the huge ox shall yield the broad sir-loin;
The ale, now brewed, in floods of amber shine:
And, basking in the chimney's ample blaze,

Mid many a tale told of his boyish days,

The nurse shall cry, of all her ills beguiled, ""Twas on these knees he sate so oft and smiled."

And soon again shall music swell the breeze; Soon, issuing forth, shall glitter through the trees Vestures of nuptial white; and hymns be sung,

And violets scattered round; and old and young,

In every cottage-porch with garlands green,

Stand still to gaze, and, gazing, bless the scene;

While, her dark eyes declining, by his side

Moves in her virgin-veil the gentle bride,

And once, alas, nor in a distant hour,

Another voice shall come from yonder tower; When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen, And weepings heard where only joy has been;

When by his children borne, and from his door Slowly departing to return no more,

He rests in holy earth with them that went before.

And such is Human Life; so gliding on,

It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone!

Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange,

As full methinks of wild and wondrous change,

As any that the wandering tribes require, Stretched in the desert round their evening-fire; As any sung of old in hall or bower

To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching-hour!

Born in a trance, we wake, reflect, inquire; And the green earth, the azure sky admire.

Of Elfin size-for ever as we run,

We cast a longer shadow in the sun!

And now a charm, and now a grace is won!

We grow in wisdom, and in stature too!

And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view,

Think nothing done while aught remains to do.

Yet, all forgot, how oft the eye-lids close,

And from the slack hand drops the gathered rose!

How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie,

While many an emmet comes with curious eye;

And on her nest the watchful wren sits by!

Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see;

So like what once we were, and once again shall be!

And say, how soon, where, blithe as innocent,

The boy at sun-rise whistled as he went,

An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean,

Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green;

The man himself how altered, not the scene!

Now journeying home with nothing but the name; Way-worn and spent, another and the same!