This was the peasant's last Good-night; At break of day, as heavenward A traveller, by a faithful hound, There in the twilight cold and gray, Excelsior! LONGFELLOW. 48. THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. ONE morning (raw it was and wet, A foggy day in winter time,) A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime; And like a Roman matron's was her mien and gait. The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begg'd an alms, like one in poor estate; Protected from this cold damp air?" "I had a son, who many a day Sail'd on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travell'd weary miles to see If aught which he had own'd might still remain for me. "The bird and cage they both were his : 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This singing-bird had gone with him; When last he sail'd, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. "He to a fellow-lodger's care Had left it, to be watched and fed, And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, Sir;-he took so much delight in it." WORDSWORTH. 49. THE BEST KEPT TILL LAST. Every man at the beginning doth set forth good wine; and when men have well drunk, then that which is worse: but thou hast kept the good wine until now. St. John ii. 10. HE heart of childhood is all mirth: THEA We frolic to and fro As free and blithe, as if on earth But if, indeed, with reckless faith Too surely, every setting day, Some lost delight we mourn; Why should we fear, youth's draught of joy, Who but a Christian, through all life Who, through the world's sad day of strife, Fathers may hate us or forsake, GOD's foundlings then are we: But we shall still have Thee We may look home, and seek in vain A fond fraternal heart, But Christ hath giv'n his promise plain, Nor shall dull age, as worldlings say, Ever the richest, tenderest glow Such is thy banquet, dearest Lord; know Our lot with thine,- to trust thy word, And keep our best till last! KEBLE. 50. SATURDAY AFTERNOON. LOVE to look on a scene like this, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, And it makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walk'd the earth for fourscore years; And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, I'm old, and " I 'bide my time;" Play on, play on; I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come. For the world, at best, is a weary place, But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, N. P. WILLIS. |