And, as along the beach we rove,

Where ebbs and flows life's restless tide, We see glad barks that leave the shore Come back no more!

Still, let us feel that though, awhile,

Sweet hours, sweet friends sail down the stream, There is a far but joyous isle

Where turns to truth hope's wildest dream,
And, reaching those who went before,
We part no more!

Thus thought the failing, gray-haired man,
And dropped his staff, one autumn day;

Joy flashed across his visage wan,

As those old voices, now grown gay, This altered burden chanted o'er:

"Sorrow no more!"

THE CURFEW.

Ah why, when life's dim eve comes on,
Should hearts, once warm, grow cold?
And why should sighs for feelings gone,
up our breath when old?

Make

'Tis true, the happy light that fell On board and hearth, of yore,

Went out when evening's tyrant bell, The Curfew's warning bore.

The fresh, warm glow of sympathy

That for our bliss is given, To gild our clay-born destiny

With radiance lit in Heaven

All these may teach—as they have taught— That as life's waves we press,

The blithest bark bounds on for nought,

That sails in loneliness!

But yet, to feel that Fate may wind
Our thread of life round those
Who make our union with our kind
A talisman of woes;

That when, before our gladdening eyes,
Life's broadest fields grow green,
Another's voice may bid arise

Some blinding mist between;

That not a moment may fleet on,
Without some sound of sorrow;
Sad yesterday's prophetic tone
Suggesting sad to-morrow!

And, worse than all, when duty stern
Bids the wrung heart be still,
Though memory cannot break her urn
Nor dry its bitter rill:

When love has ceased, we thought would flow

Till time should waste its wave,

And trust's forgot, that should not know

Oblivion in the grave

These, these are pains not all the bliss

Of sympathy can cure;
And to be rid of life like this,

What might we not endure?

To fly from these, we might forego
The grasp the fond embrace,
And, rather than this madness know,
Know never Joy's bright face.

Oh God! Oh God! let not thy wrath
So cloud my vision o'er,

That finding midnight round my path,
I look for light no more!

THE FOUNT.

When by the margin of the stream,
The traveller rests him on his way,
"Tis not to watch the dancing beam,
Or catch the glitter of the spray;

And if, unto his fainting lip,

The fresh bright waters cooling bring,
Why should he pause before he sip,
Or curse it for a worthless thing?

Or why, with loathing, should he start
Because there's earth beneath the tide,
When all the life that warms his heart
Is the same clay, scarce purified?

Oh spurn not then the stream of love,
Because the earth looks dark below!
Content thee with the skies above,

In whose warm blaze the ripples glow!

And bless thee for the kindly fate,

Which to thy pilgrim soul hath given

A fount its purest thirst to sate,

Which springs from earth, but mirrors Heaven!

ΤΟ

I cherish yet this lifeless flower:

'Twas bright and fresh, with bloom like thine, When thy soft hand in thoughtless hour,

Half flung it, careless, into mine!