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Then mourn not death; 'tis but a stair

Built with divinest art, Up which the deathless footsteps climb

Of loved ones who depart.


There's never an always cloudless sky,

There's never a vale so fair,
But over it sometimes shadows lie
In a chill and songless air.

But never a cloud o'erhung the day,

And flung its shadows down, But on its heaven-side gleamed some ray

Forming a sunshine crown.

It is dark on only the downward side;

Though rage the tempest loud, And scatter its terrors far and wide,

There's light upon the cloud.

And often, when it traileth low,
Shutting the landscape out,

And only the chilly east-winds blow
From the foggy seas of doubt,

There'll come a time, near the setting sun,

When the joys of life seem few, A rift will break in the evening dim, And the golden light stream through.

And the soul a glorious bridge will make

Out of the golden bars,
And all its priceless treasures take
Where shine the eternal stars.

John Godfrey Saxe.


"Give me a motto," said a youth To one whom years had rendered wise;

"Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth,

That briefest syllables comprise; Some word of warning or of cheer To grave upon my signet here.

"And, reverend father," said the boy,

"Since life, they say, is ever made A mingled web of grief and joy;

Since cares may come and pleasures fade, — Pray, let the motto have a range Of meaning matching every change."

"Sooth!" said the sire, "methinks you ask

A labor something over-nice, That well a finer brain might task.

What think you, lad, of this device (Older than I, though I am gray). 'Tis simple, — ' This will pass away.'

"When wafted on by Fortune's breeze,

In endless peace thou seem'st to glide,

Prepare betimes for rougher seas, And check the boast of foolish pride;

Though smiling joy is thine to-day, Remember, 'This will pass away V

"When all the sky is draped in black, And, beaten by tempestuous gales, Thy shuddering ship seems all awrack,

Then trim again thy tattered sails; To grim Despair be not a prey; Bethink thee, 'This will pass away.'

"Thus, O my son, be not o'er-proud, Nor yet cast down; Judge thou aright;

When skies are clear, expect the cloud;

In darkness, wait the coming light; Whatever be thy fate to-day, Remember, 'This will pass away!'"

Vm g Rowing OLD.

My days pass pleasantly away;
My nights are blest with sweetest


I feel no symptoms of decay;

I have no cause to mourn nor weep; My foes are impotent and shy;

My friends are neither false nor cold,

And yet, of late, I often sigh, —
I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,

My growing apathy to rhymes,
My growmg love of easy shoes,

My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,

All whisper, in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff;

I'm growing dimmer in the eyes; I'm growing fainter in my laugh;

I'm growing deeper in my sighs; I'm growing careless of my dress;

I'm growing frugal of my gold; I'm growing wise; I'm growing,— yes,—

I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;

I see it in my changing hair; I see it in my growing waist;

I see it in my growing heir; A thousand signs proclaim the truth,

As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth
I'm growing old.

Ah me! my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,

And every boon the hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!

E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare The secret she would fain withhold;

And tells me in "How young you are!"

I'm growing old.

Thanks for the years! — whose rapid flight

My sombre Muse too sadly sings;

Thanks for the gleams of golden light

That tint the darkness of their wings;

The light that beams from out the sky,

Those heavenly mansions to unfold Where all are blest, and none may sigh,

"I'm growing old!"


Somewhere—somewhere a happy clime there is, A land that knows not unavailing


Where all the clashing elements of this

Discordant scene are hushed in

deep repose. Somewhere — somewhere (ah me,

that land to win!) In some bright realm, beyond the

farthest main, Where trees of knowledge bear no

fruit of sin, And buds of pleasure blossom not in


Somewhere — somewhere an end of mortal strife With our immortal yearnings; nevermore

The outer warring with the inner life Till both are wretched Ah, that happy shore!

Where shines for aye the soul's refulgent sun,

And life is love, and love and joy are one!


Beneath the hill you may see the mill

Of wasting wood and crumbling stone;

The wheel is dripping and clattering still,

But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.

Year after year, early and late, Alike in summer and winter weather,

He pecked the stones and called the gate,

And mill and miller grew old together.

"Little Jerry!" —'twas all the same,—

They loved him well who called him so;

And whether he'd ever another name, Nobody ever seemed to know.

'Twas, "Little Jerry, come grind my rye";

And Little Jerry, come grind my wheat";

And "Little Jerry" was still the cry.

From matron bold and maiden sweet.

'Twas, "Little Jerry" on every tongue,

And so the simple truth was told; For Jerry was little when he was young,

And Jerry was little whon he was old.

But what in size he chanced to lack, That Jerry made up in being strong;

I've seen a sack upon his back
As thick as the miller, and quite as

Always busy, and always merry,
Always doing his very best,

A notable wag was little Jerry,
Who uttered well his standing jest.

How Jerry lived is known to fame, But how he died there's none may know;

One autumn day the rumor came, "The brook and Jerry are very low."

And then 'twas whispered, mournfully.

The leech had come, and he was dead;

And all the neighbors flocked to see; "Poor little Jerry!" was all they said.

They laid him in his earthly bed, — His miller's coat his only shroud;

"Dust to dust," the parson said, And all the people wept aloud.

For he had shunned the deadly sin,
And not a grain of over-toll

Had ever dropped into his bin,
To weigh upon his parting soul.

Beneath the hill there stands the mill. Of wasting wood and crumbling stone; [Still, The wheel is dripping and clattering But Jerry, the miller, is dead and gone.



I Know a girl with teeth of pearl,
And shoulders white as snow;

She lives, —ah! well,

I must not tell, —
Wouldn't you like to know?

Her sunny hair is wondrous fair,
And wavy in its flow;

Who made it less

One little tress. —
Wouldn't you like to know?

Her eyes are blue (celestial hue!)
And dazzling in their glow;

On whom they beam

With melting gleam, —
Wouldn't you like to know?

Her lips are red and finely wed,
Like roses ere they blow;

What lover sips

Those dewy lips, —
Wouldn't you like to know?

Her fingers are like lilies fair
When lilies fairest grow;

Whose hand they press

With fond caress, — Wouldn't you like to know?

Her foot is small, and has a fall
Like snow-flakes on the snow;

And where it goes

Beneath the rose, — Wouldn't you like to know?

She has a name, the sweetest name That language can bestow.

'Twould break the spell

If I should tell, — Wouldn't you like to know?


Every coin of earthly treasure
We have lavished, upon earth,

For our simple worldly pleasure,
May be reckoned something worth;

For the spending was not losing, Though the purchase were but small:

It has perished with the using;
We have had it, — that is all!

All the gold we leave behind us

When we turn to dust again (Though our avarice may blind us),

We have gathered quite in vain; Since we neither can direct it,

By the winds of fortune tossed, Nor in other worlds expect it;

What we hoarded, we have lost.

But each merciful oblation —

(Seed of pity wisely sown), What we gave in self-negation,

We may safely call our own; For the treasure freely given

Is the treasure that we hoard, Since the angels keep in Heaven

What is lent unto the Lord!

"Da ml basin." — Catullus.

Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;

Malice has ever a vigilant ear; What if Malice were lurking near? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low;

Envy too has a watchful ear;

What if Envy should chance to hear? Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Kiss me softly and speak to me low; Trust me, darling, the time is near When we may love with never a fear;

Kiss me, dear! Kiss me softly and speak to me low.

Sir Walter Scott.

[from The Lady of the Lake.] SUMMER DA WN AT LOCHKATRINE.

The summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Loch Katrine blue;

Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kissed the lake, just stirred the trees,

And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy; The mountain shadows on her breast Were neither broken nor at rest;

In bright uncertainty they lie,
Like future joys to Fancy's eye.
The water-lily to the light
Her chalice reared of silver bright;
The doe awoke, and to the lawn,
Begemmed with dew-drops, led her

The gray mist left the mountain side,

The torrent showed its glistening

pride; Invisible in flecked sky, The lark sent down her revelry;

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