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The posts of time are swift, which hav
Their seven short stages o'er, their shortlived task is done.
To sleep, to antic plays.
And toys, until the first stage end : Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give
To unrecover'd loss: we rather breathe
A ten years' breath
Before we apprehend
What 'tis to live, or fear a death: Our childish dreams are fill'd with painted joys,
Which please our sense a while, and waking, prove but toys.
How wretched, is
Poor man, that doth remain
A slave to such a state as this! His days are short, at longest; few at most:
They are but bad, at best; yet lavish'd out, or lost.
The secret springs
That make our minutes flee
On wheels more swift than eagles' wings:
My life is like the prints which feet
All trace will vanish from the sand;
All vestige of the human race,
On that lone shore loud moans the sea
Our life's a clock, and every gasp of But none, alas! shall mourn for me!
Ere we can count our days, our days they Without disease, the healthful life;
flee so fast.
The household of continuance;
The mean diet, no delicate fare;
True wisdom joined with simpleness; The night discharged of all care, Where wine the wit may not oppress; The faithful wife, without debate;
Such sleeps as may beguile the night. Contented with thine own estate, Ne wish for Death, ne fear his might. HENRY HOWARD, Earl of Surrey.
THE WEB of Life.
My life, which was so straight and plain, Has now become a tangled skein,
Yet God still holds the thread; Weave as I may, His hand doth guide The shuttle's course, however wide
The chain in woof be wed.
One weary night, when months went by, I plied my loom with tear and sigh,
In grief unnamed, untold;
But when at last the morning's light
CLARA J. MOORE.
THERE BE THOSE.
THERE be those who sow beside
The noiseless footsteps pass away,
Yet think not that the seed is dead
That silent stream, that desert ground,
And soon or late a time will come
How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!
How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!
I question much if any pain or ache
Of soul or body brings our end more nigh: Death chooses his own time: till that is sworn,
All evils may be borne.
We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife,
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life,
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal, That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,
This also can be borne.
We see a sorrow rising in our way,
And try to flee from the approaching ill; We seek some small escape; we weep and pray;
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still;
Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn, But that it can be borne.
We wind our life about another life;
We hold it closer, dearer than our own: Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife, Leaving us stunned, and stricken, and
But ah! we do not die with those we mourn,
This also can be borne.
Behold, we live through all things-famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery, All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst On soul and body-but we cannot die. Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn,
Lo, all things can be borne.
ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN.
"With you! and quit my Susan's side!
Of cruelty upon my name,
Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and To give you time for preparation,
Erewhile his portion, life, and light,
To him exist in vain.
The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye That once their shades and glory threw, Have left in yonder silent sky
No vestige where they flew.
The annals of the human race,
THE THREE WARNINGS.
THE tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground: "Twas therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years So much, that in our later stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail,— Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day, Death call'd aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave-"You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
And fit you for your future station,
In hopes you'll have no more to say,
Well pleased the world will leave."
What next the hero of our tale befell,
The willing Muse shall tell.
Nor thought of Death as near;
He pass'd his hours in peace.
Brought on his eightieth year.
"Surely, my friend, you're but in jest!
Since I was here before
"So much the worse," the clown rejoin'd;
"To spare the aged would be kind: However, see your search be legal; And your authority-is't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Besides, you promised me Three Warnings,
Which I have look'd for nights and mornings;
But for that loss of time and ease,
I can recover damages."
"I know," cries Death, "that at the
I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least: I little thought you'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable; Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" "Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past." "And no great wonder," Death replies:
"However, you still keep your eyes; And sure, to see one's loves and friends, For legs and arms would make amends.” "Perhaps," says Dodson, "so it might, But latterly I've lost my sight."
"This is a shocking tale, 'tis true, But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," cries he; "and if there
I'm grown so deaf I could not hear.”
So, come along, no more we'll part;"
HESTER THRALE PIOZZI.
You may give over plough, boys,
You may take the gear to the stead,
Send the colt to fair, boys,
He's going blind, as I said,
To see him in the shed;
Neither white nor red;
And the beasts must be fed: