The Life Clock.

There is a little mystic clock
No human eye hath seen,

That beateth on and beateth on
From morning until e'en.

And when the soul is wrapped in sleep.
And heareth not a sound,

It ticks and ticks the livelong night,
And never runneth down.

Oh! wondrous is that work of art
Which knells the passing hour;

But art ne'er formed or mind conceived
This life clock's magic power.

Nor set in gold, nor decked with gems,
By wealth and pride possessed,

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,
And hope's bright visions flee,

Like the sullen stroke of the muffled oar,
It beateth heavily.

When passion nerves the warrior's arm
For deeds of hate and wrong,
Though heeded not the fearful sound,
Its knell is deep and strong.

When eyes to eyes are gazing soft,
And tender words are spoken,
Then fast and wild it rattles on,
As if with love 't were broken.

Such is the clock that measures life,
Of flesh and spirit blended,

And thus 't will run within the heart
Till that strange tie is ended.

ANON.

It is not always May.

The sun is bright, the air is clear,
The darting swallows soar and sing,
And from the stately elms I hear
The bluebird prophesying spring.

So blue yon winding river flows,
It seems an outlet from the sky,
Where waiting till the west wind blows,
The freighted clouds at anchor lie.

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,
The fullness of their first delight;
And learn from the soft heavens above,
The melting tenderness of night.

Maiden! that read'st this simple rhyme,
Enjoy thy youth, it will not stay;
Enjoy the fragrance of thy prime,
For oh! it is not always May!

Enjoy the spring of love and youth,
To some good angel leave the rest;
For time will teach thee soon the truth, -
There are no birds in last year's nest.

LONGFELLOW.

The Nettle.

'Neath the willow's golden plumes,
On a little mossy seat,

Where the snow-white violet blooms,
Where the air is cool and sweet,

Here, reposing, full of dreams,
I the vernal noontide spent,
Watching how, in fitful gleams,
Sunbeams came, and shadows went.

Broken were my dreams, ere long,
By a low and mournful sound;
'Twas the Nettle's plaintive song,
Uttered to the flowers around.

"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,
None so wretched, half, as I;
Wherefore has God made me so,
Save to curse his name, and die?

"Not a child with sweet caress
E'er salutes me in its play,
But with terror and distress
I the gentle deed repay.

"Not a maiden near me springs,
In her wild and careless sport,
But with subtle poisonous stings,
I the playful touch retort.

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,
Bear whate'er of ill is given.

"Human spirits, cursed like thee, Have a more unpitied lot; Thy repulse can freely be,

And it always is, forgot.