LIFE. A BUSY dream, forgotten ere it fades; A vapor, melting into air away; Vain hopes, vain fears, a mesh of lights and shades, A checkered labyrinth of night and day This is our life; a rapid, surging flood, Where each wave haunts its fellow; on they press; To-day is yesterday; and Hope's young bud Has fruited a to-morrow's nothingness; Still on they press, and we are borne along, Forgetting and forgotten; trampling down The living and the dead in that fierce throng, With little heed of Heaven's smile or frown, And little care for others, right or wrong, So we in iron selfishness stand strong. And while we eye the rolling tide Away so fast, Let us the present hour employ, Let no vain hope deceive the mind; To-morrow than to-day. Our golden dreams of yore were bright: Our lives like hasting streams must be, Are doomed to fall, The sea of death, whose waves roll on Alike the river's lordly tide, Death levels poverty and pride, Our birth is but the starting-place, There all those glittering toys are brought: Is found of all. Say, then, how poor and little worth That lure us here! Dreams of a sleep that death must break: Edinburgh Review. Ye disappear! NOTE.-Compare with Longfellow's translation of "Coplas de Manrique " by Don Jorge Manrique. THROUGH LIFE. WE slight the gifts that every season bears, Has sounded through the house and died away, Chambers's Journal. A CHARACTER AND A QUESTION. A DUBIOUS, strange, uncomprehended life, The god in him hath taken unto wife A daughter of the pit, and, strongly bound For such a sunken soul, what room in heaven? The Spectator. WITH THE TIDE. WAVE by wave o'er the sandy bar, Up to the coast lights, glimmering wan, Slowly the tide came creeping on. Wave by wave o'er the sandy bar, Fell on the night—and the tide was out. TWO PICTURES. SOMEBODY'S heart is gay, And somebody's heart is sad; Bright eyes are filled with mirth, And hearts beside the household hearth Ah, sorrow and hope and joy No thoughts of the funeral train No hopes that the past will come again To the lovers of joy and mirth; But the past alone to those who weep Somebody's heart is gay, And somebody's heart is sad; For the lights are bright across the way, And a door with crape is clad. Sadness and gladness alike Confront us on every side; A wealth of smiles and a flood of tears, WHY IS IT SO? SOME find work where some find rest, Some eyes sleep where some eyes wake, Some wills faint where some wills fight- I often wonder who are right, The ones who strive or the ones who yield. Some hands fold where other hands And so through ages and through lands Some feet halt where some feet tread Why come these thoughts in baleful forms Nor yet be merry half so long; The knowledge that my youth is gone For what he needs but cannot find. And mourn each lost and faded scene, Pain waits on pleasure evermore, To blanch its blush, to dim its light; To mock it when its dreams are o'er, When all its charms have taken flight. And thus it is we cannot sing, Or long be joyous, when we 're old; When summer hours have taken wing, The flowers must perish in the cold! AT THE LOOM. SHE stood at the clumsy loom, And the day was bright and long; So she worked at her pattern, roses red And trailing vines; but she thought instead Where the sweetbrier grew in the distant wood, And of pleasant shade where the old oak stood. She stood at the stately loom, And wove with a girlish grace; And her eyes grew tender and sweet As she wrought in the web apace. Strong men mounted with lance and spear, Then a chase with hounds and a frightened deer; But she thought the while of her lover knight, And whispered softly, "He comes to-night." She stood at the tireless loom, And wove with a steady hand; And a watchful eye on the twain Without, at play in the sand. |