SPRING it is cheery,

Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;

When he's forsaken,

Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die ?

Love will not clip him,

Maids will not lip him, Mand and Marian pass him by ;

Youth it is sunny,

Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?

June it was jolly,

O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye !

Youth may be silly,

Wisdom is chilly, – What can an old man do but die ?

Friends they are scanty,

Beggars are plenty,
If he has followers, I know why;

Gold 's in his clutches,

(Buying him crutches !) What can an old man do but die ?

THOMAS HOOD.

They say that in his prime,
Ere the pruning-knife of time

Cut him down,
Not a better man was found
By the crier on his round

Through the town.
But now he walks the streets,
And he looks at all he meets

So forlorn ;
And he shakes his feeble head,
That it seems as if he said,

“They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has pressed

In their bloom ;
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year

On the tomb.
My grandmamma has said -
Poor old lady! she is dead

Long ago
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose

In the snow.
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin

Like a staff ;
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack

In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For me to sit and grin

At him here,

WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN?

WHEN shall we all meet again ?
When shall we all meet again ?
Oft shall glowing hope expire,
Oft shall wearied love retire,
Oft shall death and sorrow reign,
Ere we all shall meet again.

Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky;

But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that,

Are so queer !

There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.

Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
My old eyes can't bear, boys,
To see him in the shed ;
The cow's dry and spare, boys,
She's neither here nor there, boys,
I doubt she's badly bred ;
Stop the mill to-inorn, boys,
There 'll be no more corn, boys,
Neither white nor red ;
There's no sign of grass, boys,
You may sell the goat and the ass, boys,
The land 's not what it was, boys,
And the beasts must be fed :
You may turn Peg away, boys,
You may pay off old Ned,
We've had a dull day, boys,
And Tommy's dead.

THE APPROACH OF AGE.

FROM “TALES OF THE HALL."

a

Six years had passed, 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, displayed the encroaching

white;
The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,
And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man.
I rode or walked 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 showed my stranger 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 parlor 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 learned 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 blessed 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 numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft, - in short, began to prose.

GEORGE CRABBE.

Move my chair on the floor, boys,
Let me turn my head :
She 's standing there in the door, boys,
Your sister Winifred !
Take her away from me, boys,
Your sister Winifred !
Move me round in my place, boys,
Let me turn my head,
Take her away from me, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed,
The bones of her thin face, boys,
As she lay on her death-bed !
I don't know how it be, boys,
When all 's done and said,
But I see her looking at me, boys,
Wherever I turn my head ;
Out of the big oak tree, boys,
Out of the garden-bed,
And the lily as pale as she, boys,
And the rose that used to be red.

There's something not right, boys,
But I think it's not in my head,
I've kept my precious sight, boys, -
The Lord be hallowed !
Outside and in
The ground is cold to my tread,
The hills are wizen and thin,
The sky is shrivelled and shred,
The hedges down by the loan
I can count them bone by bone,
The leaves are open and spread,
But I see the teeth of the land,
And hands like a dead man's hand,
And the eyes of a dead man's head.

TOMMY'S DEAD.

You may give over plough, boys,
Vou may take the gear to the stead,
All the sweat o' your brow, boys,
Will never get beer and bread.
The seed's waste, I know, boys,

0, POUR upon my soul again

That sad, unearthly strain That seems from other worlds to plain ! Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs,

And dropped them from the skies. No, never came from aught below

This melody of woe, That makes my heart to overflow, As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light — if light it be —

That veils the world I see.

The stairs are too steep, boys,
You may carry me to the head,
The night's dark and deep, boys,
Your mother's long in bed,
'Tis time to go to sleep, boys,
And Tommy 's dead.
I'm not used to kiss, boys,
You may shake my hand instead.
All things go amiss, boys,
You may lay me where she is, boys,
And I'll rest my old head :
'T is a poor world, this, boys,

's dead.

For all I see around me wears

The hue of other spheres ; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, Can mould a sadness like to this,

So like angelic bliss !

And Tommy

SIDNEY DOBELL