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Old Truth has sent thee here to bear
And now, as I observe thee nearer,
Thou’rt pretty-very pretty-quite
Than these, but not so bright;
She says thou art a herald, sent
In kind and friendly warning,
(The fair young brow adorning), And midst their wild luxuriance taught To show thyself, and waken thought
That thought, which to the dreamer preaches
A lesson stern as true,
How youth must vanish too!
And comes there not a whispering sound
A low, faint, murmuring breath, Which, as thou movest, floats around
Like echoes in their death ?“ Time onward sweeps, youth flies, prepare!" Such is thine errand, First Gray Hair.
OWN in the wide gray river,
The current is sweeping strong; Over the wide
river Floats the fisherman's song. The oar-stroke times the singing,
The song falls with the oar; And an echo in both is ringing
I thought to hear no more. Out of a deeper current
The song brings back to me A cry
from mortal silence Of mortal
agony. Life that was spent and vanished,
Love that had died of wrong, Hearts that are dead in living,
Come back in the fisherman's song. I see the maples leafing,
Just as they leafed before ;
shoreWith the rude strain swelling, sinking,
In the cadence of days gone by, As the oar, from the water drinking,
Ripples the mirrored sky. Yet oul hath life diviner;
Its past returns no more,
But in echoes, that answer the minor
Of the boat-song, from the shore.
His judgment waiteth long;
With a fisherman's careless song.
REVE DU MIDI.
WHEN o’er the mountain
Under the grass ;
And the idle winds go by,
Then, when the silent stream
Up to the sun;
When the moth forgets to play,
Then, from the noise of war
Dropped from the sky-
Banished to silence drear-
Some melancholy gale
With her sighs;
Glories that faded fast,
As, poised on vibrant wings,
To the red flowers-
I linger in delight,
Frank Lee Benedict.
(From “THE SHADOW-WORSHIPPER.”)
ARNOLD, pausing on the brow of the hill. A
GOODLY scene! The valley fair outstretched
In many a wild and picturesque change
Like some enchanted thing that's wandered far,
"HE Autumn's latest leaves are gone,
Its richest glories dead,
Have with that parting fled.