THANKS.

THANKS in old age-thanks ere I go,

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air-for life, mere life, For precious ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother dear

you, father-you, brothers, sisters, friends),

For all my days-not those of peace alone-the days of war the

same,

For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands,

For shelter, wine and meat-for sweet appreciation,

(You distant, dim unknown-or young or old-countless, unspecified, readers belov'd,

We never met, and ne'er shall meet-and yet our souls embrace, long, close and long ;)

For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books-for colors, forms, For all the brave strong men-devoted, hardy men-who've forward sprung in freedom's help, all years, all lands,

For braver, stronger, more devoted men-(a special laurel ere I go, to life's war's chosen ones,

The cannoneers of song and thought-the great artillerists-the foremost leaders, captains of the soul:)

As soldier from an ended war return'd-As traveller out of myriads, to the long procession retrospective, Thanks-joyful thanks!-a soldier's, traveller's thanks.

ALONE.

I MISS you, my darling, my darling,
The embers burn low on the hearth;
And still is the stir of the household,
And hushed is the voice of its mirth;
The rain plashes fast on the terrace,
The wind past the lattices moan,

The midnight chimes out from the minster,
And I am alone.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I want you, my darling, my darling;
I am tired with care and with fret;
I would nestle in silence beside you,
And all but your presence forget,
In the hush of the happiness given

To those who through trusting have grown
To the fulness of love in contentment;
But I am alone.

I call you, my darling, my darling!
My voice echoes back on the heart;
I stretch my arms to you in longing,
And, lo! they fall empty apart;
I whisper the sweet words you taught me,
The words that we only have known,
Till the blank of the dumb air is bitter,
For I am alone.

I need you, my darling, my darling!
With its yearning my very heart aches;
The load that divides us weighs harder;
I shrink from the jar that it makes.
Old sorrows rise up to beset me;

Old doubts make my spirit their own,
Oh, come through the darkness and save me,
For I am alone.

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

I LOVE it! I love it! and who shall dare

To chide me for loving that old arm chair?

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs,

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would you know the spell? A mother sat there!

And a sacred thing is that old arm chair.

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In childhood's hour I lingered near
That hallowed seat with a listening ear,

To the gentle words that mother would give,
To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me shame would never betide,
With truth for my creed and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,
As I knelt beside that old arm chair.

I sat and I watched her many a day

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray,
And I almost worshipped her when she smiled
And turned from her Bible to bless her child:
Years rolled on, but the last one sped,
My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled!
I felt how much the heart can bear,
When I saw her die in that old arm chair.

'Tis past! 'tis past! but I gaze on it now
With quivering lip and throbbing brow;
"Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died,
And memory still flows with the lava tide.
Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

As the scalding drops start down my cheek;
But I love it! I love it! and cannot tear
My soul from my mother's old arm chair!

WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE.

J. W. RILEY.

WE are not always glad when we smile,
For the heart in a tempest of pain

May live in the guise of a laugh in the eyes,

As the rainbow may live in the rain;
And the stormless night of our woe
May hang out a radiant star,

Whose light in the sky of distress is a lie
As black as the thunder clouds are.

OLD TIMES.

We are not always glad when we smile,

For the world is so fickle and gay,

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That our doubts and our fears, and our griefs and our tears,

Are laughingly hidden away;

And the touch of a frivolous hand

May oftener wound than caress,

And the kisses that drip from the reveller's lip

May oftener blister than bless.

We are not always glad when we smile,

But the conscience is quick to record

That the sorrow and the sin we are holding within
Is pain in the sight of the Lord;

Yet ever-O ever till pride

And pretence shall cease to revile,

The inner recess of the heart must confess

We are not always glad when we smile.

OLD TIMES.

WILLIAM G. EGGLESTON.

How I wish I had lived when creation
Knew nothing of sin nor of woe,
When each man was in life's highest station,
And no one was above nor below;
When the world had a roseate glow

And customs and fashions were new-
Then the earth was an Eden- But no;
Old times were too good to be true.

In old times no foreign migration
Turned political cakes into dough;
No man had a wife's poor relation
To take in pecuniary tow;

In old times some slight deviation
From the right didn't lay a man low,
And a sinner's eternal salvation

Could be bought for a chapel or so.
Then men didn't go to and fro,

Telling other folks what they should do;
Each minded his business- But no;
Old times were too good to be true.

ENVOI.

The worry, the sad tribulation

Of the present is past computation.

Once the question was "What do you know?"

But now 'tis "How much do you owe?"
Shall we rub out? Begin all anew?—
Old times were too good to be true.