But, as the careworn cheek grows wan,
And sorrow's shafts fly thicker,
Ye stars, that measure life to man,
Why seem your courses quicker?

When joys have lost their bloom and breath,
And life itself is vapid,

Why, as we near the Falls of Death,

Feel we its tide more rapid?

It may be strange, - yet who would change
Time's course to slower speeding,
When one by one our friends have gone,

And left our bosoms bleeding?

Heaven gives our years of fading strength
Indemnifying fleetness;

And those of youth, a seeming length,
Proportioned to their sweetness.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

FROM "THE SPLEEN."

THUS, then, I steer my bark, and sail
On even keel with gentle gale;
At helm I make my reason sit,
My crew of passions all submit.

If dark and blustering prove some nights,
Philosophy puts forth her lights;
Experience holds the cautious glass,
To shun the breakers, as I pass,
And frequent throws the wary lead,
To see what dangers may be hid;
And once in seven years I'm seen
At Bath or Tunbridge to careen.
Though pleased to see the dolphins play,
I mind my compass and my way.
With store sufficient for belief,
And wisely still prepared to reef,
Nor wanting the dispersive bowl
Of cloudy weather in the soul,

I make (may Heaven propitious send
Such wind and weather to the end),
Neither becalmed nor overblown,
Life's voyage to the world unknown.

MATTHEW GREEN.

THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS.

SOME reckon their age by years,
Some measure their life by art;

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,
And their lives by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show

The length, not the depth of years,

For God hath marked each sorrowing day
And numbered every secret tear,

And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay
For all his children suffer here.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

HOPE.

FROM "THE PLEASURES OF HOPE."*

UNFADING Hope! when life's last embers burn, When soul to soul, and dust to dust return! Heaven to thy charge resigns the awful hour! O, then thy kingdom comes! Immortal Power! What though each spark of earth-born rapture fly The quivering lip, pale cheek, and closing eye! Bright to the soul thy seraph hands convey The morning dream of life's eternal day, Then, then, the triumph and the trance begin, And all the phoenix spirit burns within!

Daughter of Faith, awake, arise, illume The dread unknown, the chaos of the tomb; Melt, and dispel, ye spectre-doubts, that roll Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul ! Fly, like the moon-eyed herald of Dismay, Chased on his night-steed by the star of day! The strife is o'er, the pangs of Nature close, And life's last rapture triumphs o'er her woes. Hark! as the spirit eyes, with eagle gaze, The noon of Heaven undazzled by the blaze, On heavenly winds that waft her to the sky, Float the sweet tones of star-born melody; Wild as that hallowed anthem sent to hail Bethlehem's shepherds in the lonely vale, When Jordan hushed his waves, and midnight still Watched on the holy towers of Zion hill!

Eternal Hope! when yonder spheres sublime
Pealed their first notes to sound the march of Time,
Thy joyous youth began, - but not to fade.
When all the sister planets have decayed;
When wrapt in fire the realms of ether glow,
And Heaven's last thunder shakes the world
below;

Thou, undismayed, shalt o'er the ruins smile,
And light thy torch at Nature's funeral pile.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

THE VANITY OF THE WORLD. FALSE world, thou ly'st thou canst not lend The least delight:

Thy favors cannot gain a friend,
They are so slight:

This poem was written when the author was but twenty-one years of age.

Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:

Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,

And yet thou vaunt'st, and yet thou vy'st With heaven fond earth, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales

Of endless treasure;

Thy bounty offers easy sales

Of lasting pleasure ;

Thou ask'st the conscience what she ails,
And swear'st to ease her;

There's none can want where thou supply'st;
There's none can give where thou deny'st.

Alas! fond world, thou boasts; false world, thou ly'st.

What well-advised ear regards

What earth can say ?

Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :

Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play :

Thy game at weakest, still thou vyʼst ;

If seen, and then revy'd, deny'st:

Thou art not what thou seem'st; false world, thou ly'st.

Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint

Of new-coined treasure ;

A paradise, that has no stint,

No change, no measure;

A painted cask, but nothing in 't,
Nor wealth, nor pleasure :

Vain earth that falsely thus comply'st
With man; vain man! that thou rely'st
On earth; vain man, thou dot'st; vain earth,
thou ly'st.

What mean dull souls, in this high measure,

Good by to Flattery's fawning face;
To Grandeur with his wise grimace;
To upstart Wealth's averted eye;
To supple Office, low and high;
To crowded halls, to court and street;
To frozen hearts and hasting feet;
To those who go, and those who come;
Good by, proud world! I'm going home.

I'm going to my own hearth-stone,
Bosomed in yon green hills alone,
A secret nook in a pleasant land,
Whose groves the frolic fairies planned;
Where arches green, the livelong day,
Echo the black bird's roundelay,
And vulgar feet have never trod

A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

O, when I am safe in my sylvan home,

I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;
And when I am stretched beneath the pines,
Where the evening star so holy shines,
I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,
At the sophist schools, and the learned clan;
For what are they all, in their high conceit,
When man in the bush with God may meet?

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

THE NEVERMORE.

LOOK in my face; my name is Might-have-been;
I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell;
Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
Cast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between;
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my
spell

Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,
Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen.

Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart One moment through my soul the soft surprise Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of sighs,

Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI

THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

WHAT is death? 'Tis to be free,

No more to love or hope or fear, To join the great equality;

All, all alike are humbled there.

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares;
My feast of joy is but a dish of pain;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares;

And all my good is but vain hope of gain :
The day is [fled], and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung;
The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green;
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen :
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I am but made :
The glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN.

LINES

FOUND IN HIS BIBLE IN THE GATE-HOUSE AT
WESTMINSTER.

E'EN such is time; that takes in trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Who in the dark and silent grave,
When we have wandered all our ways,
Shuts up the story of our days:
But from this earth, this grave, this dust,
My God shall raise me up, I trust.

SIR WALTER RALEIGH.

THE SOUL'S ERRAND.

Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless arrant! Fear not to touch the best,

The truth shall be thy warrant : Go, since I needs must die, And give the world the lie.

Go, tell the court it glows

And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the church it shows

What's good, and doth no good. If church and court reply, Then give them both the lie.

Tell potentates they live

Acting by others' action, Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction: If potentates reply,

Give potentates the lie.

Tell men of high condition That manage the estate, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate: And if they once reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell them that brave it most, They beg for more by spending, Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending: And if they make reply, Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion; Tell love it is but lust; Tell time it is but motion;

Tell flesh it is but dust: And wish them not reply, For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;

Tell honor how it alters;

Tell beauty how she blasteth ;
Tell favor how it falters:
And as they shall reply,
Give every one the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness;
Tell wisdom she entangles

Herself in over-wiseness:
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.

Tell physic of her boldness;

Tell skill it is pretension; Tell charity of coldness;

Tell law it is contention :

And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;

Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:

And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming;

Tell schools they want profoundness,

And stand too much on seeming :

If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

BRAHMA.

Ir the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
Far or forgot to me is near;

Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanished gods to me appear;

And one to me are shame and fame. They reckon ill who leave me out;

When me they fly, I am the wings; I am the doubter and the doubt,

And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;

But thou, meek lover of the good!

Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

BRAHMA'S ANSWER.

ONCE, when the days were ages,
And the old Earth was young,
The high gods and the sages
From Nature's golden pages

Her open secrets wrung.

Each questioned each to know

Whence came the Heavens above, and whence the

Earth below.

Indra, the endless giver

Of every gracious thing

The gods to him deliver,

Whose bounty is the river

Of which they are the spring-
Indra, with anxious heart,

Ventures with Vivochunu where Brahma is a

part.

"Brahma! Supremest Being!

By whom the worlds are made, Where we are blind, all-seeing, Stable, where we are fleeing, Of Life and Death afraid, Instruct us, for mankind, What is the body, Brahma? O Brahma! what the mind?"

Hearing as though he heard not

So perfect was his rest,

So vast the soul that erred not,

So wise the lips that stirred not

His hand upon his breast

He laid, whereat his face

Was mirrored in the river that girt that holy

place.