WHAT WOULD YE ASK?

BY GEORGE W. LAMB.

WHAT Would

ye

ask-a restless strife of soul

For wealth, or fame, or aught beneath the sun? Alas! man's life is short to have such goal, And what is human glory when 'tis won!

The grave receiveth all. The hero's crown
And poet's laurels crumble into dust;

Soon are their names forgot, though long renown
And deathless honor was their fondest trust.

The eye grows dim and youthful fire burns low,
The strong limbs bend, the once warm heart grows

cold;

Yet onward still this toiling world doth go,

As if man ne'er should lay beneath the mould.

Bend to your tasks, ye who amid the clash

And clang of life's hard strugglings win your way, Strive on unceasing though the bitter lash

Of hopes all blighted smite your hearts each day.

Press on untiring 'mid the jostling crowd,

Heed not the weak ones crushed beneath your

tread,

Think not upon the coming pall and shroud

And narrow grave-your home when life has fled.

And this ye say is happiness, and tell

Of ends attained and high ambition crowned!
Ye cannot hear how oft is rung a knell
Where doth one shout of victory resound.

Ye reck not of the withering, wasting heart,
The life-long toil unblessed by fortune's smile,
The sickening grief that bids the life depart,
And the dark woe no soothing can beguile.

Triumphant notes are ringing in your ears,

Ye list not when is struck a mournful strain, Though round ye blight, decay, and hurrying years, And mouldering dust, tell how 'tis all in vain.

WHAT WOULD YE ASK?

Live out your little span, on honor's scroll

Your names and glorious deeds emblazon high, All aims accomplish, reach the utmost goal

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For which ye strove then lay ye down and die!

'Tis the sure end. When in the funeral urn
Thy head, once proudly lifted, lieth low;
Long generations, thronging in their turn,
Will trample on thine ashes as they go.

The
grave receiveth all. Within its breast
The peasant lies-the prince is at his side-
Long are their slumbers, silent is their rest,
And equal now is poverty and pride

It matters not what they may leave behind,
One lays aside his staff and one his crown,
To his last resting place of clay consigned,
Each in his nothingness has laid him down.

So

go we on, still struggling, to the tomb ;
Each bubble breaking, yet we grasp again;
Each hoped for pleasure bringing deeper gloom,
And every joy with sorrow in its train.

AN AIR-CHATEAU.

BY NEHEMIAH CLEAVELAND.

How beauteous in the glowing west,
Those thousand-tinted isles that float;
On the broad sea of light they rest,
Or pass to lovelier realms remote.

Methinks it were a bliss to roam

Where those far fields in beauty lie; Methinks there were a welcome home, In the soft clime of yonder sky.

On some bright, sunny cloud, I'd build My palace, in the verge of heaven; On marble fix it firm, and gild

Its cornices with gold of even.

AN AIR-CHATEAU.

From amethystine beds I'd draw

My blocks to shape its swelling dome ; Here should you trace the old Doric law, There the Corinthian grace of Rome.

In avenues of enchanting sweep,

Broad oaks and towering elms should stand; Blue lakes in placid stillness sleep,

And currents roll o'er silver sand.

Perchance, to animate the scene,

Beyond the reach of art and gold,

Some spirit, whose seraphic mien

Should wear no trace of earthly mould

Crowning each hope, might cheer my eyes
With beauty, and with love my heart,
And to my sky-hung Paradise,

Its last and loveliest charm impart.

The day, with her, more calm, more bright,
Would flit on silken wing away,

With her, the dark and drowsy night

Seem soft and cheerful as the day.

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