I've often watched thy streaming sand, Still sliding down, Again heaped up, then down again; While thus I spin and sometimes sing, Still shalt thou flow, And jog along thy destined way; Steady as truth, on either end Thy lengthened day Shall gild once more my native plain; HYMN TO DIANA. — Jonson, born in 1574. QUEENE, and huntresse, chaste, and faire, Now the sun is laid to sleepe, Seated, in thy silver chaire, State in wonted manner keepe : Hesperus intreats thy light, Earth, let not thy impious shade Cynthia's shining orbe was made Lay thy bow of pearle apart, Give unto the flying hart Space to breathe, how short soever: THE MEN OF OLD.- Milnes. I KNOW not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine perforce A ghost of Time to raise, As if they could check the course Still it is true, and over true, That I delight to close This book of life, self-wise and new, With rights, though not too closely scanned, Enjoyed as far as known, With will by no reverse unmanned, – With pulse of even tone, They from to-day and from to-night Than yesterday and yesternight Had proffered them before. To them was life a simple art A game where each man took his part, A battle whose great scheme and scope Content, as men-at-arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on and proudly wears; Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares: Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day, They went about their gravest deeds As noble boys at play. And what if Nature's fearful wound For that their spirits never swooned For that their love but flowed more fast, Their charities more free, Not conscious what mere drops they cast Into the evil sea. A man's best things are nearest him, It is the distant and the dim That we are sick to greet: For flowers that grow our hands beneath, We struggle and aspire, Our hearts must die, except they breathe The air of fresh Desire. Yet, Brothers, who up Reason's hill O, loiter not! those heights are chill, — And still restrain your haughty gaze, Remembering distance leaves a haze THE WORTH OF HOURS. Milnes. BELIEVE not that your inner eye For every man's weak self, alas! As through a dim or tinted glass: But if in earnest care you would Those surely are not fairly spent, And more, though free from seeming harm, You rest from toil of mind or arm, If then a painful sense comes on Of something from your being's chain Upon your heart this truth may rise,— Suffices Man's just destinies : So should we live, that every Hour That every Thought and every Deed Esteeming Sorrow, whose employ ૨ |