Strange glory streams through life's wild rents; And through the open door of death,

We see the heaven that beckoneth

To the beloved going hence.

MASSEY.

Goldsmith passed away at forty-six- his wish ungratified, that he might die at home in his native Irish village.

In all my wanderings round this world of care,
In all my griefs-and God has given my share—
I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,
Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;
To husband out life's taper at the close,
And keep the flame from wasting, by repose.
I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,
Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill;
Around my fire an evening group to draw,
And tell of all I felt, and all I saw ;

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,
Pants to the place from whence at first she flew;
I still had hopes, my long vexations past,
Here to return, and die at home at last.

At the same age of forty-six died the inimitable author of "The Song of the Shirt.”

A well known writer, referring to the following last verses of Thomas Hood, written a few weeks before his death, speaks of them as presenting "an affecting picture of the writer himself; such as he haunts our memory the last time his dying hand was grasped in ours:

Farewell, Life! my senses swim,
And the world is growing dim;
Thronging shadows cloud the light,
Like the advent of the night—

Colder, colder, colder still,
Upward steals a vapour chill;
Strong the earthy odour

grows
I smell the mould above the rose!
Welcome, Life! the spirit strives!
Strength returns and hope revives!
Cloudy fears and shapes forlorn
Fly like shadows at the morn:
O'er the earth there comes a bloom;
Sunny light for sullen gloom,
Warm perfume for vapour cold-

I smell the rose above the mould!

This age of forty-six is graphically pourtrayed by the poet Crabbe, as he experienced it:

Six years had pass'd, and forty ere the six,
When Time began to play his usual tricks ;
The locks once comely in a virgin's sight,
Locks of pure brown, display'd the encroaching
white;

The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walk'd, as I was wont before,
But now the bounding spirit was no more;
A moderate pace would now my body heat;
A walk of moderate length distress my feet.
I shew'd my stronger guest those hills sublime,
But said: "The view is poor; we need not climb."
At a friend's mansion I began to dread
The cold neat parlour and the gay glazed bed;
At home I felt a more decided taste,

And must have all things in my order placed.
I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,
My dinner more; I learn'd to play at chess.
I took my dog and gun, but saw the.brute
Was disappointed that I did not shoot.

My morning walks I now could bear to lose,
And bless'd the shower that gave me not to choose.
In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;

The active arm, the agile hand, were gone.
Small daily actions into habits grew,

And new dislike to forms and fashions new.
I loved my trees in order to dispose;

I number'd peaches, look'd how stocks arose; Told the same story oft-in short, began to prose.

At the age of forty-eight died, in 1794, Sir William Jones, an eminent lawyer, and master of twenty-eight languages, the wonder and admiration of his contemporaries. The guiding principles of his noble life have a deep significance for us all in middle age. In India, he wrote, on a small piece of paper, the following lines on the division of his time.

Sir Edward Coke:

Six hours in sleep, in law's grave study six,
Four spend in prayer-the rest on nature fix.
Rather:

Seven hours to law, to soothing slumber seven, Ten to the world allot, and all to Heaven. And the vital principle of devotedness to truth, he embodied in these lines, imitating the important last sentence of Berkeley's Siris, which we shall do well to observe. "He that would make a real progress in knowledge must dedicate his age as well as his youth, the latter-growth as well as the firstfruits, at the altar of Truth."

Before thy mystic altar, heavenly Truth,
I kneel in manhood as I knelt in youth:
Thus let me kneel, till this dull form decay,
And life's last shade be brighten'd by thy ray:
Then shall my soul, now lost in clouds below,
Soar without bound, without consuming glow.

A mind thus devoted to truth must realize the promise of the Psalmist to the righteous man, as described in our old version:

He shall be like a tree that grows

Near planted by a river,

Which in his season yields his fruit
And his leaf fadeth never.

The bereavements of middle life cast increasingly tender, solemn, holy feelings over the successive birthdays, as "friend after friend departs," and thus on each anniversary we sum up the bygone year: Many treasur'd moments fraught

With a thought

Of the throbbing pulses stirr'd

By a word;

Gone at last;

Vision-haunted do we gaze

Through the windings of life's maze,

Dimly shadow'd through the haze

Of the past.

Left to thrill,

Many warm emotions still

Some old friendship we not yet

Can forget.

There are smiles that brighten tears
In the rainbow of past years,
And the shadow that appears

To regret.

Fair time of calm resolve-of sober thought!
Quiet half-way hostelry on life's long road,
In which to rest and re-adjust our load!
High table-land, to which we have been brought
By stumbling steps of ill-directed toil!
Season when not to achieve is to despair!
Last field for us of a full fruitful soil!
Only spring-tide our freighted aims to bear
Onward to all our yearning dreams have sought!

How art thou changed! Once to youthful eyes,
Thin silvering locks and thought's imprinted lines
Of sloping age gave weird and wintry signs;
But now, these trophies ours, we recognize
Only a voice faint rippling to its shore,
And a weak tottering step as marks of eld.
None are so far but some are on before;
Thus still at distance is the goal beheld,
And to improve the way is truly wise.

Farewell, ye blossom'd hedges! and the deep
Thick green of summer on the matted bough!
The languid autumn mellows round us now;
Yet fancy may its vernal beauties keep,