When Finis comes, the Book we close, And somewhat sadly, Fancy goes, With backward step, from stage to stage ... There is so much that no one knows,— 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! BY THE SAME AUTHOR. In preparation. AT THE SIGN OF THE LYRE. A COLLECTION OF VERSES, Not hitherto reprinted. |