WE FADE AS A LEAF. SEE the leaves around us falling, Dry and wither'd, to the ground; Thus to thoughtless mortals calling, In a sad and solemn sound: Sons of Adam, once in Eden, Virgins, much, too much presuming On your boasted white and red, View us late in beauty blooming, Number'd now among the dead. Griping misers, nightly waking, See the end of all your care; Fled on wings of our own making, We have left our owners bare. Sons of honour, fed on praises, Fluttering high in fancied worth, Lo! the fickle air, that raises, Brings us down to parent earth. Learned sophs, in systems jaded, Youths, though yet no losses grieve you, Venerable sires, grown hoary, Yearly in our course returning, On the Tree of Life eternal, Man, let all thy hope be stay'd, Bears the Leaf that shall not fade. DR HORNE.. -Poetical Register, 1806–7. THE BUILDERS. ALL are architects of Fate, Working in these walls of Time; Some with massive deeds and great, Some with ornaments of rhyme. Nothing useless is or low: Each thing in its place is best: And what seems but idle show Strengthens and supports the rest. For the structure that we raise, Our to-days and yesterdays Are the blocks with which we build. Truly shape and fashion these; Leave no yawning gaps between; Think not, because no man sees, Such things will remain unseen. In the elder days of Art, Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part; For the gods see everywhere. Let us do our work as well, Both the unseen and the seen; Else our lives are incomplete, Build to-day, then, strong and sure, And ascending and secure Shall to-morrow find its place. Thus alone can we attain To those turrets, where the eye H. W. LONGFELLOW, 1807— -American. THE DARKEST HOUR. DESPAIR not, Poet, whose warm soul aspires So that thy song may consecrate thy name : Sing on, and hope, nor murmur that the crowd Despair not, Genius, wheresoe'er thou art, And doubts and dangers may obstruct thy way; Despair not, Patriot, who, in dreams sublime, We seem to travel on a sunward way, And what seems dubious now, may yet be clear ;— The darkest hour is on the verge of day. Despair not, Virtue, who in sorrow's hour Some green branch gone, some bird of promise flown: |