The venerable woods-rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks That make the meadows green; and, pour'd round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,— Are but the solemn declarations all Of the great tomb of man. The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes 1 Shall one by one be gather'd to thy side By those who in her turn shall follow them. To that mysterious realm where each shall take Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, W. C. BRYANT, 1798— -American. TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Who are but born Just as the modest morn Teem'd her refreshing dew? Alas! you have not known that shower Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years; Or warp'd, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings! and make known Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep Or that ye have not seen as yet Or brought a kiss From that sweet heart to this? By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read, "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." R. HERRICK, 1591-1660. THE OLD WASHERWOMAN. You busy with the linen see This hoary-headed woman here, Of washerwomen halest she Within her six-and-seventieth year. Thus hath she still with upright heart Assign'd her to fulfil by Heaven. With joyous soul in youth's bright morn She loved, and hoped, and wedded too; She hath the lot of woman borne, Nor light have been her cares, nor few; She hath a sickly husband nursed, Him sire three children taught to call, Hath laid him in the grave the first; Yet faith and hope maintain'd through all The orphans to support had she; To bear their part in life's endeavour And thus in age was left alone, Yet cheerful was her heart as ever. ; By thrift and thought small store she's won, And with her savings flax has bought, Which waking livelong nights she's spun, And thread unto the weaver brought; To linen he has wove the thread; And scissors she and needle taking, Her shroud with her own hand has made, Without a blemish in the making. P Her shroud it is her treasured prize, Her jewel and her care-worn hoard. O'er God's bless'd book devoutly bending; And I, life's evening closing round, Fulfill'd what mine was to fulfil ; IDLENESS. WHAT heart can think, or tongue express, This idleness in some of us Is seen to seem a thing but slight; |