When Finis comes, the Book we close, 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. |