The land where the aged find their youth, And the young no whit'ning hair: Oh! safe, my child, from both time and death- THE FRIEND OF OUR DARKER DAYS. BY FRANCES BROWN. "Twas said, when the world was fresh and young, That the friends of earth were few; And shrines have blazed, and harps have rung, And say, when the furrowing tracks of time The faith so prized in her early prime We know there are hands and smiles to greet Our steps on the summit fair; But lone are the climber's weary feet, Where the steep lies bleak and bare. For some have gain'd far heights and streams, But the sunrise shed on their hearts' first dreams, Yet, O for the bright isles seen afar, When our sails were first unfurl'd, And the glance that once was the guiding star And, O for the voice that spake in love, Alas! we have missed pure gems that lay And dark is the night of changing years Till the thorns grow up and the tangled tares In the stronghold of its truth. The shrines of our household gods, perchance We have seen their brightness wane; And the love which the heart can give but once, But still from the graves of better hopes- One blessing springs to the heart and lips, WE ARE GROWING OLD. BY FRANCES BROWN. We are growing old-how the thought will risa On some long-remembered spot that lies It may be the shrine of our early vows, But it seems like a far-off isle to u In the stormy sea of years. Oh wide and wild are the waves that part Our steps from its greenness now · And we miss the joy of many a heart, And the light of many a brow; For deep o'er many a stately bark Have the whelming billows rolled, That steered with us from that early markOh! friends, we are growing old! But oh the changes we have seen The graves in our path that have grown greez The winters still on our own may spare But we saw their snows upon brighter hair- We have gain'd the world's cold wisdom no We have won the wealth of many a clime But where is the hope that saw in Time But its boundless heritage? Will it come again when the violet wakos, And our souls might joy in the spring-time then. For it ne'er could give us the youth again SONGS OF OUR LAND. BY FRANCES BROWN. Songs of our land, ye are with us forever; The power and the splendor of thrones pass away, Through summer's bright roses or autumn's decay. And truth, which Time writeth on leaves or on sand; the bards may go down to the place of their slumbers, Her breathings are heard in the songs of our land! For they keep a record of those, the true-hearted, Of love that grew cold, and the hope that was vain. And weeds may grow wild o'er the brave heart and hand Songs of our land ye have followed the stranger, Ye have gone with our wand'rers thro' distance and danger With the breath of our mountains in summers long vanish'd, The spring-time may come with the song of her glory, While ocean waves roll, or the mountains shall st und |