[From Human Life.] Tracing in vain the footsteps o'er the green; THE PASSAGE FROM BIRTH TO The man himself how altered, not AGE. AND such is Human Life; so, gliding on, It glimmers like a meteor, and is gone! Yet is the tale, brief though it be, as strange, As full, methinks, of wild and wondrous change, As any that the wandering tribes require, Stretched in the desert round their evening fire; As any sung of old in hall or bower To minstrel-harps at midnight's witching hour! Born in a trance, we wake, observe, inquire; And the green earth, the azure sky admire. Of elfin-size,- for ever as we run, We cast a longer shadow in the sun! And now a charm, and now a grace is won! We grow in stature, and in wisdom too! And, as new scenes, new objects rise to view, Think nothing done while aught remains to do. Yet, all forgot, how oft the eyelids close, And from the slack hand drops the gathered rose! How oft, as dead, on the warm turf we lie, While many an emmet comes with curious eye; And on her nest the watchful wren sits by! Nor do we speak or move, or hear or see; So like what once we were, and once again shall be! And say, how soon, where, blithe as innocent, The boy at sunrise carolled as he went, An aged pilgrim on his staff shall lean, the scene! Now journeying home with nothing but the name; Wayworn and spent, another and the same! No eye observes the growth or the decay. To-day we look as we did yesterday; And we shall look to-morrow as today. [From Human Life.] TRUE UNION. THEN before all they stand,-the holy vow And ring of gold, no fond illusions now, Bind her as his. Across the threshold led, And every tear kissed off as soon as shed, His house she enters,- there to be a light Shining within, when all without is night; A guardian-angel o'er his life presiding, Doubling his pleasures, and his cares dividing; Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, From a vain world we love, alas, too long, To fireside happiness, and hours of And feeling hearts,- touch them but rightly, pour But there are moments which he calls his own. A thousand melodies unheard before! Then, never less alone than when are strung; Loved and still loves,- not dead,but gone before, He gathers round him; and revives at will Scenes in his life,- that breathe enchantment still, That come not now at dreary intervals, But where a light as from the blessed falls, A light such guests bring ever,— pure and holy, Lapping the soul in sweetest melancholy! His to prescribe the place, adjudge-Ah, then less willing (nor the the prize, [energies choice condemn) Envying no more the young their To live with others than to think of Than they an old man when his words are wise; His a delight how pure... without alloy; Strong in their strength, rejoicing in their joy! [repay Now in their turn assisting, they The anxious cares of many and many a day; And now by those he loves relieved, restored, His very wants and weaknesses afford A feeling of enjoyment. In his walks, Leaning on them, how oft he stops and talks, While they look up! Their questions, their replies, Fresh as the welling waters, round him rise, Gladdening his spirit; and, his theme the past, How eloquent he is! His thoughts flow fast; And, while his heart (oh, can the heart grow old? False are the tales that in the world are told!) Swells in his voice, he knows not where to end; Like one discoursing of an absent friend. them! Hail, memory, hail! in thy exhaustless mine From age to age unnumbered treasures shine! Thought and her shadowy brood thy call obey, And place and time are subject to thy sway! Thy pleasures most we feel, when most alone; The only pleasures we can call our own. Lighter than air, hope's summer visions die, If but a fleeting cloud obscure the sky; If but a beam of sober reason play, Lo, fancy's fairy frost-work melts away! But can the wiles of art, the grasp of power Snatch the rich relics of a well-spent hour? These, when the trembling spirit wings her flight, Pour round her path a stream of liv ing light; And gild those pure and perfect realms of rest, Where virtue triumphs, and her sons are blest! [From The Pleasures of Memory.] THE school's lone porch, with reverend mosses gray, Just tells the pensive pilgrim where it lay. Mute is the bell that rung at peep of dawn, Quickening my truant feet across the lawn; Unheard the shout that rent the noon-tide air, When the slow dial gave a pause to care. Up springs, at every step, to claim a tear, Some little friendship formed and cherished here; And not the lightest leaf, but trembling teems With golden visions and romantic dreams! [From The Pleasures of Memory.] GUARDIAN SPIRITS. OFT may the spirits of the dead descend To watch the silent slumbers of a friend; To hover round his evening walk unseen, And hold sweet converse on the dusky green; To hail the spot where first their friendship grew, And heaven and nature opened to . their view! Oft, when he trims his cheerful hearth, and sees A smiling circle emulous to please; There may these gentle guests delight to dwell, And bless the scene they loved in life so well! SOME are laughing, some are weeping; She is sleeping, only sleeping. I still am sore in doubt concerning Round her rest wild flowers are "To-morrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "To-morrow," cried they one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away: "To-morrow and to-day" they cried: I was of yesterday. I shivered comfortless, but cast To stay, and yet to part how loth: |