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Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still
Stood looking at the west with that half smile,
As if a pleasant thought were at her heart.
Presently, in the edge of the last tint

Of sunset, where the blue was melted in
To the faint golden mellowness, a startau edT
Stood suddenly. A laugh of wild delight
Burst from her lips, and, putting up her hands,
Her simple thought broke forth expressively:-
66 Father, dear father, God has made a star."

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

AMERICAN POETRY.

THE LAPSE OF TIME.

LAMENT Who will, in fruitless tears,

The speed with which our moments fly, I sigh not over vanished years,

But watch the years that hasten by.

Look how they come !-a mingled crowd
Of bright and dark, but rapid days;
Beneath them, like a summer cloud,
The wide world changes as I gaze.

What! grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on?

As idly might I weep at noon,

To see the blush of morning gone.

Could I forego the hopes that glow
In prospect like Elysian isles,
And let the charming future go,
With all her promises and smiles?

The future-cruel were the power
Whose doom would tear thee from my
Thou sweetener of the present hour!
We cannot-no-we will not part.

heart;

NEVER SAY FAIL.

Oh, leave me still the rapid flight

That makes the changing seasons gay;
The grateful speed that brings the night,
The swift and glad return of day—

The months that touch, with added grace,
This little prattler at my knee,
In whose arch eye and speaking face,
New meaning every hour I see.

Time, time will seam and blanch my brow:
Well; I shall sit with aged men,
And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then.
And should no foul dishonour lie
Upon my head when I am gray,
Love yet shall watch my fading eye,
And smooth the path of my decay.

Then haste thee, time-'tis kindness all
That speeds thy winged feet so fast;
Thy pleasures stay not till they fall,
And all thy pains are quickly past.

Thou fliest, and bear'st away our woes,
And as thy shadowy train depart,
The memory of sorrow grows
A lighter burden on the heart.

NEVER SAY FAIL.

AMERICAN POETRY.

KEEP pushing-tis wiser

Than sitting aside,

And dreaming and sighing

And waiting the tide.
In life's earnest battle
They only prevail

Who daily march onward
And never say fail!

329

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TO A CHILD.

TO A CHILD.

AMERICAN POETRY.

831

THINGS of high import sound I in thine ears,
Dear child, though now thou mayest not feel their power;
But hoard them up, and in thy coming years

Forget them not, and when earth's tempests lour,

A talisman unto thee shall they be,

To give thy weak arm strength-to make thy dim eye see.

Seek truth, that pure celestial truth-whose birth

Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred, shrined In reason's light: not oft she visits earth,

But her majestic port, the willing mind,

Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll.

Be free. Not chiefly from the iron chain,

But from the one which passion forges-be The master of thyself. If lost, regain

The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free.
Trample thy proud lusts proudly 'neath thy feet,
And stand erect, as for a heaven-born one is meet.

Seek virtue.-Wear her armour to the fight;
Then, as a wrestler gathers strength from strife,
Shalt thou be nerved to a more vigorous might
By each contending turbulent ill of life.

Seek virtue.-She alone is all divine;

And having found, be strong, in God's own strength and thine.

Truth-freedom-virtue-these, dear child, have power,
If rightly cherished, to uphold, sustain,
And bless thy spirit, in its darkest hour;
Neglect them-thy celestial gifts are vain-

In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled;
Thy soul be crushed 'neath gauds for which it basely toiled.

Anonymous.

WISHES AND REALITIES.

A CHILD'S WISHES.

"I WISH I were a little bird,
To fly so far and high,

And sail along the golden clouds,
And through the azure sky.
I'd be the first to see the sun
Up from the ocean spring;
And ere it touched the glittering spire,
His ray should gild my wing.

"Above the hills I'd watch him still,
Far down the crimson west;
And sing to him my evening song,

Ere yet I sought my rest.

And many a land I then should see,
As hill and plain I crossed;
Nor fear through all the pathless sky
That I should e'er be lost.

"I'd fly where, round the olive bough, The vine its tendrils weaves;

And shelter from the noonbeams seek Among the myrtle leaves.

Now, if I climb our highest hill,

How little can I see!

Oh had I but a pair of wings,
How happy should I be !"

66

REPLY.

'Wings cannot soar above the sky,

As thou in thought canst do;

Nor can the veiling clouds confine

Thy mental eye's keen view.

Not to the sun dost thou chant forth
Thy simple evening hymn;

Thou praisest Him, before whose smile
The noonday sun grows dim.

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