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They questioned each the other
Time the supreme! — Time is eternity ;
Pregnant with all eternity can give ;
Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile.
A power ethereal, only not adored.
Ah ! how unjust to Nature and himself, The shadow on the water is all there is of man!” Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, “ The earth with woe is cumbered,
We censure Nature for a span too short :
That span too short, we tax as tedious too;
To lash the lingering moments into speed,
Art, brainless Art ! our furious charioteer The body is the shadow that on the water lies :" | (For Nature's voice, unstified, would recall),
Drives headlong towards the precipice of death ! Thus Indra, looking deeper,
Death, most our dread ; death, thus more dread. With Brahma's self possessed.
ful made : So dry thine eyes, thou weeper !
0, what a riddle of absurdity! And rise again, thou sleeper !
| Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot wheels : The hand on Brahma's breast
How heavily we drag the load of life!
Blest leisure is our curse : like that of Cain, Covering the soul that dies not. This is what
It makes us wander ; wander earth around
To fly that tyrant, Thought. As Atlas groaned
Slight inconvenience! prisons hardly frown,
From hateful Time if prisons set us free. 'Oye Dewy ådéovoi pudot, ádéovo 8è dentá. Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, ("The mills of the gods grind late, but they grind fine.")
We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink,
GREEK POET. Ages to years. The telescope is turned. Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they To man's false optics (from his folly false) grind exceeding small;
Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, Though with patience he stands waiting, with
And seems to creer, decrepit with his age ; exactness grinds he all.
Behold him when past by ; what then is seen From the German of F. VON LOGAU. Trans But his broad pinions, swifter than the winds ? lation of H. W. LONGFELLOW. And all mankind, in contradiction strong,
Rueful, aghast, cry out on his career.
RICHARD HENRY STODDARD.
Ye well arrayed ! ye lilies of our land !
Ye lilies male ! who neither toil nor spin
(As sister-lilies might) if not so wise
Yourselves most insupportable ! for whom
A brighter beam in Leo ; silky-soft
And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song, How much is to be done ! my hopes and fears | And robes, and notions, framed in foreign looms ! Start up alarmed, and o'er life's narrow verge () ye Lorenzos of our age ! who deem Look down - on what ? a fathomless abyss ; One moment unamused a misery A dread eternity ; how surely mine!
Not made for feeble man ! who call aloud And can eternity belong to me,
For every baw ble drivelled o'er by sense ; Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour ? For rattles, and conceits of every cast,
For change of follies and relays of joy,
To drag you patient through the tedious length 1
WHAT IS TIME?
| I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs, How will you weather an eternal night,
Wrinkled and curved with worldly cares : Where such expedients fail ?
“ Time is the warp of life,” said he ; “0, tell DR. EDWARD YOUNG. The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well !"
I asked the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled :
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
“Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode !" Be wise to-day; 't is madness to defer ; I asked a dying sinner, ere the ide Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Of life had left his veins : “Time !" he replied ; Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. “I've lost it! ah, the treasure !” and he died. Procrastination is the thief of time ;
I asked the golden sun and silver spheres, Year after year it steals, till all are fled,
Those bright chronometers of days and years : And to the mercies of a moment leaves
They answered, “ Time is but a meteor glare," The vast concerns of an eternal scene.
And bade me for eternity prepare. If not so frequent, would not this be strange ? I asked the Seasons, in their annual round, That 't is so frequent, this is stranger still. Which beautify or desolate the ground;
Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears And they replied (no oracle more wise), The palm, “ That all men are about to live," "'Tis Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest Forever on the brink of being born. All pay themselves the compliment to think I asked a spirit lost, -- but O the shriek They one day shall not drivel : and their pride 'That pierced my soul ! I shudder while I speak On this reversion takes up realy praise ; It cried, “A particle ! a speck! a mite At least, their own ; their future selves applaud :Of endless years, duration infinite!” How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! of things inanimate my dial I Time lodged in their own hands is folly's veils ; Consulted, and it made me this reply,That lodged in Fate's, to wisdom they consign; “Time is the season fair of living well, The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone: The path of glory or the path of hell." "T is not in folly not to scorn a fool,
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said, And scarce in human wisdom to do more. “ Time is the present hour, the past has fed ; All promise is poor dilatory man,
Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet And that through every stage. When young, On any human being rose or set." indeed,
I asked old Father Time himself at last; Iu full content we sometimes nobly rest, But in a moment he flew swiftly past ; Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish,
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind. At thirty, man suspects himself a fool ;
I asked the mighty angel who shall stand Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan ; One foot on sea and one on solid land : At fifty, chides his infamous delay,
| “Mortal !" he cried, “the mystery now is o'er ; Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ;
| Time was, Time is, but Time shall be no more !" In all the magnanimity of thought,
WILLIAM MARSDEN. Resolves, and re-resolves; then dies the same. And why? Because he thinks himself immortal.
THE JESTER'S SERMON. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate The Jester shook his hood and bells, and leaped Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden upon a chair; dread ;
The pages laughed, the women screamed, and But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, tossed their scented hair ; Soon close ; where passed the shaft, no trace is The falcon whistled, staghounds bayed, the lapfound.
dog barked without, As from the wing no scar the sky retains, The scullion dropped the pitcher brown, the cook The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
railed at the lout; So dies in human hearts the thought of death : The steward, counting out his gold, let pouch Even with the tender tears which Nature sheds
and money fall, O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. And why? because the Jester rose to say grace
DR. EDWARD YOUNG. I in the hall !
GEORGE WALTER THORNBURY
The page played with the heron's plume, the | Then lond they laughed; the fat cook's tears ran steward with his chain ;
down into the pan ; The butler drumined upon the board, and laughed The steward shook, that he was forced to drop with might and main ;
the brimming can ; The grooms beat on their metal cans, and roared | And then again the women screamed, and every till they were red, -
staghound bayed, But still the Jester shut his eyes and rolled his And why? because the motley fool so wise a serwitty head,
mon made. And when they grew a little still, read half a
yard of text, And, waving hand, struck on the desk, then frowned like one perplexed.
ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA. “Dear singers all," the fool began, “man's life
The cunning hand that carved this face,
A little helmeted Minerva, -is but a jest, A dream, a shadow, bubble, air, a vapor at the
The hand, I say, ere Phidias wrought,
Had lost its subtile skill and fervor. best. In a thousand rounds of law I find not a single, who was he? Was he glad or sad, ounce of love ;
Who knew to carve in such a fashion ? A blind man killed the parson's cow in shooting | Perchance he shaped this dainty head at the dove ;
For some brown girl that scorned his passio n The fool that eats till he is sick must fast till he is well;
But he is dust : we may not know The wooer who can flatter most will bear away! His happy or unhappy story : the belle.
Nameless, and dead these thousand years,
His work outlives him, – there's his glory! “Let no man halloo lie is safe till he is through
Both man and jewel lay in earth the wood ;
Beneath a lava-buried city; He who will not when he may, must tarry when
The thousand summers came and went, he should ;
With neither haste nor hate nor pity. He who laughs at crooked men should need walk very straight ;
The years wiped out the man, but left
Till some Visconti dug it up, -
slow to wed;
Your gracious hanıliwork has guarded,
Has come, at last, to be rewarded !
Who would not suffer slights of men, To fish for sprats with golden hooks is foolish, And pangs of hopeless passion also, by your leave;
| To have his carven agate-stone
about and begs;
ON A FAN The short way round, in spite of all, is still the
THAT BELONGED TO THE MARQUISE DE POMMOUR. iongest way ; When the hungry curate licks the knife, there's
(BALLADE.) not much for the clerk ;
CHICKEN-SKIN, delicate, white, When the pilot, turning pale and sick, looks up
Painted by Carlo Vanloo, the storm grow's dark."
Loves in a riot of light,
THOMAS BAILBY ALDRICH
Roses and vaporous blue ;
Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam.
Down go the steed and rider ; the plumed chief Picture above, if you can,
Sinks with his followers ; the head that wears
The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek.
A funeral train – the torrent sweeps away See how they rise at the sight,
Bearers and bier and mourners. By the bed Thronging the Eil de Bauf through, Of one who dies men gather sorrowing, Courtiers as butterflies bright,
And women weep aloud ; the flood rolls on ;
The wail is stifled, and the sobbing group
Borne under. Hark to that shrill sudden shout Cardinal, duke, -- to a man,
The cry of an applauding multitude
Swayed by some loud-tongued orator who wields This was the Pompadour's fan !
The living mass, as if he were its soul.
The waters choke the shout and all is still. Ah, but things more than polite
Lo, next, a kneeling crowd and one who spreads Hung on this toy, voyez-vous !
The hands in prayer ; the engulfing wave o'erMatters of state and of might,
takes Things that great ministers do ;
And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields Things that, maybe, overthrew
The chisel, and the stricken marble grows
To beauty ; at his easel, eager-eyed,
A painter stands, and sunshine, at bis touch, This was the Pompadour's fan!
Gathers upon the canvas, and life glows;
A poet, as he paces to and fro,
Murmurs his sounding line. Awhile they ride Where are the secrets it knew?
The advancing billow, till its tossing crest
Strikes them and flings them under while their - But where is the Pompadour, too?
Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile
And weeps, and midst her tears is carried down.
A beam like that of moonlight turns the spray A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless urn, To glistening pearls ; two lovers, hand in hand, Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years Rise on the billowy swell and fondly look Among the nations. How the rushing waves Into each other's eyes. The rushing flood Bear all before them! On their foremost edge, Flings them apart; the youth goes down; the And there alone, is Life ; the Present there
maid, Tosses and foams and fills the air with roar With hands outstretched in vain and streaming Of mingled noises. There are they who toil,
eyes, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they waits for the next high wave to follow him. Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy hind - An aged man succeeds ; his bending form Woodman and delver with the spade—are there, Sinks slowly ; mingling with the sullen stream And busy artisan beside his bench,
Gleam the white locks and they are seen no more. And pallid student with his written roll.
Lo, wider grows the stream ; a sea-like flood A mornent on the mounting billow seen - Saps earth's walled cities ; massive palaces The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. Crumble before it ; fortresses and towers There groups of revellers, whose brows are twined Dissolve in the swift waters ; populous realms, With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, Swept by the torrent, see their ancient tribes And as they raise their flowing cups to touch Engulfed and lost, their very languages The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath Stifled and never to be uttered more. The waves and disappear. I hear the jar
I pause and turn my eyes, and, looking back, Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth Where that tumultuous flood has passed, I see From canuon, where the advancing billow sends The silent Ocean of the Past, a waste Up to the sight long files of armed men,
of waters weltering over graves, its shores That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. Strewn with the wreck of fleets, where mast and The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, hull
Drop away piecemeal ; battlemented walls | Their households happy -- all are raised and borne Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand By that great current on its onward sweep, Unroofed, forsaken by the worshippers.
Wandering and rippling with caressing waves There lie memorial stones, whence time has Around green islands, fragrant with the breath gnawed
Of flowers that never wither. So they pass, The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, From stage to stage, along the shining course The broken altars of forgotten gods,
Of that fair river broadening like a sea. Foundations of old cities and long streets | As its smooth eddies curl along their way, Where never fall of human foot is heard
They bring old friends together ; hands are Upon the desolate pavement. I behold
clasped Dim glimmerings of lost jewels far within In joy unspeakable ; the mother's arms The sleeping waters, diamond, sardonyx, Again are folded round the child she loved Ruby and topaz, pearl and chrysolite,
And lost. Old sorrows are forgotten now, Once glittering at the banquet on fair brows Or but remembered to make sweet the hour That long ago were dust; and all around, | That overpays them ; wounded hearts that bled Strewn on the waters of that silent sea,
Or broke are healed forever. In the room Are withering bridal wreaths, and glossy locks of this grief-shadowed Present there shall be Shorn from fair brows by loving hands, and scrolls A Present in whose reign no grief shall gnaw O'erwritten – haply with fond words of love The heart, and never shall a tender tie And vows of friendship --- and fair pages flung Be broken — in whose reign the eternal Change Fresh from the printer's engine. There they lie That waits on growth and action shall proceed A moment and then sink away from sight. With everlasting Concord hand in hand. I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes,
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
So much to do : so little done!
Ah ! yesternight I saw the sun How painfully must the poor heart have beat
Sink beamless down the vaulted gray, — In bosoms without number, as the blow
The ghastly ghost of YESTERDAY. Was struck that slew their hope or broke their
peace. Sadly I turn, and look before, where yet
So little done : so much to do! The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist
Each morning breaks on conflicts new ; Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope,
But eager, brave, I'll join the fray,
And fight the battle of TO-DAY.
So much to do : so little done!
But when it's o'er, -- the victory won, Moulds from the idle air ; where serpents lift
Oh! then, my soul, this strife and sorrow The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth
Will end in that great, glad To-MORROW.
And know no reason why we're born,
Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish,
Unlucky birds of hateful name ; The lives of infants and ingenuous youths,
Ravens or crow's might fill their places, Sages and saintly women who have made
And swallow corn and carcasses,
JAMES R. GILMORE