The shadow on the water is all there is of man!" Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man! "The earth with woe is cumbered, And no man understands; They see their days are numbered By one that never slumbered Nor stayed his dreadful hands. I see with Brahma's eyes Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, We censure Nature for a span too short: To lash the lingering moments into speed, The body is the shadow that on the water lies:" (For Nature's voice, unstifled, would recall), Drives headlong towards the precipice of death! Death, most our dread; death, thus more dread ful made: O, what a riddle of absurdity! Leisure is pain; takes off our chariot wheels: Ye well arrayed! ye lilies of our land! Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor spin (As sister-lilies might) if not so wise As Solomon, more sumptuous to the sight! Ye delicate who nothing can support, Yourselves most insupportable! for whom The winter rose must blow, the sun put on A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft Where are they? With the years beyond the flood. Favonius, breathe still softer, or be chid; It is the signal that demands despatch; How much is to be done! my hopes and fears Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour? And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song, To drag you patient through the tedious length DR. EDWARD YOUNG. PROCRASTINATION. FROM "NIGHT THOUGHTS," NIGHT I BE wise to-day; 't is madness to defer; Next day the fatal precedent will plead ; Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life. Procrastination is the thief of time; Year after year it steals, till all are fled, And to the mercies of a moment leaves The vast concerns of an eternal scene. If not so frequent, would not this be strange? That 't is so frequent, this is stranger still. Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears All pay themselves the compliment to think And scarce in human wisdom to do more. All promise is poor dilatory man, WHAT IS TIME? I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs, Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled: Of life had left his veins: "Time!" he replied; I asked the Seasons, in their annual round, I asked a spirit lost, - but O the shriek Time is the season fair of living well, The path of glory or the path of hell.” I asked my Bible, and methinks it said, Time is the present hour, the past has fled; Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet And that through every stage. When young, On any human being rose or set." indeed, In full content we sometimes nobly rest, And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where passed the shaft, no trace is found. As from the wing no scar the sky retains, DR. EDWARD YOUNG. I asked old Father Time himself at last; The page played with the heron's plume, the | Then loud they laughed; the fat cook's tears ran steward with his chain; down into the pan; The butler drummed 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 ser ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA. "Dear sinners all," the fool began, "man's life THE cunning hand that carved this face, A little helmeted Minerva, Who was he? Was he glad or sad, Who knew to carve in such a fashion? Perchance he shaped this dainty head For some brown girl that scorned his passio n - The thousand summers came and went, With neither haste nor hate nor pity. The years wiped out the man, but left Till some Visconti dug it up, To rise and fall on Mabel's bosom ! True coral needs no painter's brush, nor need be O Roman brother! see how Time Roses and vaporous blue; Hark to the dainty frou-frou! Picture above, if you can, Eyes that could melt as the dew, This was the Pompadour's fan! See how they rise at the sight, Beauties that Fragonard drew, Ah, but things more than polite ENVOY. Where are the secrets it knew? AUSTIN DOBSON, THE FLOOD OF YEARS. A MIGHTY Hand, from an exhaustless urn, Pours forth the never-ending Flood of Years Among the nations. How the rushing waves Bear all before them! On their foremost edge, And there alone, is Life; the Present there Tosses and foams and fills the air with roar Of mingled noises. There are they who toil, And they who strive, and they who feast, and they Who hurry to and fro. The sturdy hind Woodman and delver with the spade-are there, And busy artisan beside his bench, And pallid student with his written roll. A moment on the mounting billow seen — The flood sweeps over them and they are gone. There groups of revellers, whose brows are twined With roses, ride the topmost swell awhile, And as they raise their flowing cups to touch The clinking brim to brim, are whirled beneath The waves and disappear. I hear the jar Of beaten drums, and thunders that break forth From cannon, where the advancing billow sends Up to the sight long files of armèd men, That hurry to the charge through flame and smoke. The torrent bears them under, whelmed and hid, Slayer and slain, in heaps of bloody foam. The felon's with cropped ear and branded cheek. By the bed The waters choke the shout and all is still. And swallows them and him. A sculptor wields A painter stands, and sunshine, at his touch, Awhile they ride The advancing billow, till its tossing crest Strikes them and flings them under while their tasks Are yet unfinished. See a mother smile With hands outstretched in vain and streaming eyes, Waits for the next high wave to follow him. Lo, wider grows the stream; a sea-like flood I pause and turn my eyes, and, looking back, Where that tumultuous flood has passed, I see The silent Ocean of the Past, a waste Of waters weltering over graves, its shores Strewn with the wreck of fleets, where mast and hull Drop away piecemeal; battlemented walls Frown idly, green with moss, and temples stand Unroofed, forsaken by the worshippers. Their households happy -- all are raised and borne By that great current on its onward sweep, Wandering and rippling with caressing waves There lie memorial stones, whence time has Around green islands, fragrant with the breath gnawed The graven legends, thrones of kings o'erturned, I look, and the quick tears are in my eyes, Of human sorrow, telling of dear ties How painfully must the poor heart have beat Was struck that slew their hope or broke their peace. Sadly I turn, and look before, where yet The Flood must pass, and I behold a mist Where swarm dissolving forms, the brood of Hope, Divinely fair, that rest on banks of flowers Or wander among rainbows, fading soon And reappearing, haply giving place To shapes of grisly aspect, such as Fear Moulds from the idle air; where serpents lift The head to strike, and skeletons stretch forth The bony arm in menace. Further on A belt of darkness seems to bar the way, Long, low and distant, where the Life that Is Touches the Life to come. The Flood of Years Rolls toward it, nearer and nearer. It must pass That dismal barrier. What is there beyond? Hear what the wise and good have said. Beyond That belt of darkness still the years roll on More gently, but with not less mighty sweep. They gather up again and softly bear All the sweet lives that late were overwhelmed And lost to sight — all that in them was good, Noble, and truly great and worthy of love --The lives of infants and ingenuous youths, Sages and saintly women who have made Of flowers that never wither. So they pass, In joy unspeakable; the mother's arms WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. THREE DAYS. So much to do: so little done! So little done so much to do! So much to do so little done! INSIGNIFICANT EXISTENCE. THERE are a number of us creep Into this world, to eat and sleep; And know no reason why we're born, But only to consume the corn, Devour the cattle, fowl, and fish, And leave behind an empty dish. The crows and ravens do the same, Unlucky birds of hateful name; Ravens or crows might fill their places, And swallow corn and carcasses, |