THE CUP OF LIFE. It is, we own, subject of much debate, --Course of Time. UP, FAINT HEART, UP! UP, faint heart, up! immortal life Do earth's brief ills brave souls bow down? These passing clouds may darkly frown- Dost inly pine at others' gold, Or titles of proud lords? Though boundless wealth should crown thy wish— Lands stretch'd from pole to pole Can all earth's riches, rank, atone For poverty of soul? Ever man wanders from himself, Bliss-phantoms to pursue— Know evermore a sunlike sou Beaming within the breast, Can cheer with light the gloomiest soul, A joy as deep stern Zeno's soul Did to the Cynic bring, As the homage of a conquer'd world Yet, wouldst thou clasp the goal Within the God-breathed spirit dwells That proudly speaks its strength to cope With peril's darkest hour. This, 'mid the stormiest ills of time, Like beacon smiling o'er the waves Then, brother, trust the immortal life Oh, godlike treat earth's fleeting ills- Up, faint heart, up! the blackest clouds But veil the heaven beyond! ANONYMOUS. BE WISE IN TIME. THUS with a still but stern solemnity Time bids us seize the hours that glide away, And every speaking season seems to say, Be wise in time-man only lives to die! The pomp of woods-the gloom of hills on high, The shooting trees-the sun, that far away Beats, or from distant realms brings back the dayThe flowers, expanding in the morning sky, Expiring with the noon-all sadly shew, Too sadly shew, alas! how all below Yields in its turn to Time's.devouring sway. Why then pursue with vain and grovelling care Vain hopes, and empty names, and shapes of air, That like the breezes come, and pass away! -Italian of Filicaja. THE HOUR OF DEATH. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set-but all, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! Day is for mortal care, Eve, for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, The banquet hath its hour Its feverish hour, of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears-but all are thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, Leaves have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death! We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain-But who shall teach us when to look for thee! Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? They have one season--all are ours to die! |