Puslapio vaizdai

And knows a hand hath turned the team astray.
There is no king more terrible than Death.

He hath no pity. For the new-made Bride,
Blithe with the promise of her life's delight,
That wanders gladly by her Husband's side,
He with the clatter of his drum doth fright;
He scares the Virgin at the convent grate;
The Maid half-won, the Lover passionate;
He hath no grace for weakness and decay :
The tender Wife, the Widow bent and gray,
The feeble Sire whose footstep faltereth,—
All these he leadeth by the lonely way.
There is no king more terrible than Death.


YOUTH, for whose ear and monishing of late,

I sang of Prodigals and lost estate,

Have thou thy joy of living and be gay;

But know not less that there must come a day,-
Aye, and perchance e'en now it hasteneth,—

When thine own heart shall speak to thee and say,-
There is no king more terrible than Death.

When Finis comes, the Book we close,
And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes,

With backward step, from stage to stage
Of that accomplished pilgrimage
The thorn lies thicker than the rose!


There is so much that no one knows,

So much un-reached that none suppose; What flaws! what faults!-on every page, When Finis comes.

Still, they must pass! The swift Tide flows. Though not for all the laurel grows,

Perchance, in this be-slandered age,

The worker, mainly, wins his wage;— And Time will sweep both friends and foes When FINIS comes!

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