The Life Clock. There is a little mystic clock That beateth on and beateth on And when the soul is wrapped in sleep. It ticks and ticks the livelong night, Oh! wondrous is that work of art But art ne'er formed or mind conceived Nor set in gold, nor decked with gems, But rich or poor, or high or low, Each bears it in his breast. When life's deep stream mid beds of flowers All still and softly glides; Like the wavelet's step, with a gentle beat, It warns of passing tides. When threat'ning darkness gathers o'er, Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar, When passion nerves the warrior's arm When eyes to eyes are gazing soft, Such is the clock that measures life, And thus 't will run within the heart ANON. It is not always May. The sun is bright, the air is clear, So blue yon winding river flows, All things are new, the buds, the leaves That gild the elm tree's nodding crest, And even the nest beneath the eaves; There are no birds in last year's nest. All things rejoice in youth and love, Maiden! that read'st this simple rhyme, Enjoy the spring of love and youth, LONGFELLOW. The Nettle. 'Neath the willow's golden plumes, Where the snow-white violet blooms, Here, reposing, full of dreams, Broken were my dreams, ere long, "Sorrows are the common lot; Where, on all this fair green earth, Lives the soul that bears them not, Has not borne them from its birth? "But of all that live in woe, "Not a child with sweet caress "Not a maiden near me springs, So, repulsing all I love, Giving pain where I would bless, Who can blame me, if I prove Impious in my wretchedness?" "Nay," I whispered in reply, "Question not the love of Heaven; But, with courage firm and high, "Human spirits, cursed like thee, Have a more unpitied lot; Thy repulse can freely be, And it always is, forgot. |