No chronic tortures rack'd his agèd limb,
For luxury and sloth had nourish'd none for him.
And I am glad that he has lived thus long,
And glad that he has gone to his reward;
Nor deem that kindly Nature did him wrong,
Softly to disengage the vital cord.
When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die.
W. C. BRYANT, 1798—
OR, A BIRD IN THE HAND IS WORTH TWO IN
THERE are two little songsters, well known in the land,
Their names are I-Have and O-Had-I;
I-Have will come tamely and perch on your hand,
But O-Had-I will mock you most sadly.
I-Have, at first sight, is less fair to the eye,
But his worth is by far more enduring
Than a thousand O-Had-I's, that sit far and high,
On roofs and on trees so alluring.
Full many a golden egg this bird will lay,
And sing you "Be cheery! be cheery!"
Oh, merrily then will the day glide away,
And sweet shall your sleep be when weary.
But let an O-Had-I just once take your eye,
And a longing to catch him once seize you,
He'll give you no comfort nor rest till you die-
Life-long he'll torment you and tease you.
He'll keep you all day running up and down hill,
Now racing, now panting and creeping,
While far overland, this sweet bird at his will,
With his golden plumage is sweeping.
Then every wise man who attends to my song
Will count his I-Have a choice treasure ;
And where'er an O-Had-I comes flying along,
Will just let him fly at his pleasure.
--From the German.
WHAT is to come when we have lived to-morrow?
What fortunes crowd within the coming day?
Shall grief's sharp fingers score another furrow?
Or triumph bathe us in its glorious ray?
What is to come?
Fond dreams untold, and sweeter joys untasted!
Are ye to welcome in the unborn time?
Or failure prove the fruit of long hours wasted,
And lead to age the too believing time?
What is to come?
Not all the memories the past can hallow,
Not all the restless present may despise-
The present hour may go, the past lie fallow-
Can match the future, dazzling to our eyes.
What is to come?
Is it to come, that slavish fetters broken,
Shall strew the land which vaunts of liberty?
Shall freedom's falchion be rebellion's token,
Or bondage tremble on the palsied knee?
What is to come?
Shall war o'er all the earth e'er bathe his fingers
In sorrow's tears, and kiss the cheek of peace,
As was foretold of old by sacred singers,
And earth o'erflush with bountiful increase?
Is this to come?
The vainly proud, the selfishly ambitious,
Shall they o'erride the fortunes of mankind?
Or shall their teachings false, and schemes pernicious,
By honest wrath be scatter'd to the wind?
Is this to come?
Thou patient, honest toil, take this assurance-
Although of thy bright visions some will fade,
One end alone has faithful stern endurance,
That ever God and grateful nature made.
This is to come!
Reward and true Endeavour are near neighbours,
Whom pits and rugged obstacles divide;
And pleasant fancy's glow will cheer the labours
Which leads Endeavour to her guerdon's side.
In time to come!
-All the Year Round, 1859.
WEAVE, brothers, weave!-Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom;
And shew us how brightly your flowers grow
That have beauty but not perfume:
Come, shew us the rose with a hundred dyes,
The lily that hath no spot,
The violet deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.
Sing, sing, brothers! weave and sing,
'Tis good both to sing and weave ; 'Tis better to work than live idle,
"Tis better to sing than grieve.
Weave, brothers, weave!-Weave, and bid
The colours of sunset glow!
Let grace in each gliding thread be hid,
Let beauty about ye blow:
Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure;
And time nor chance shall your work untwine,
But all-like a truth-endure !
Weave, brothers, weave !—Toil is ours;
But toil is the lot of man;
One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!
There is not a creature, from England's king
To the peasant that delves the soil,
That knows half the pleasure the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil.
How many of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep!-Sleep, gentle sleep, Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee, That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
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