YOUTH AND AGE.

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee!
Both were mine; Life went a-Maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,

When I was young.

When I was young! Ah, woful When!
Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house, not built with hands,
This body, that does me grievous wrong,
O'er airy cliffs and glittering sands
How lightly then it flashed along!
Like those trim skiffs unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,

That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide.

Naught cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

O the joys that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,

Ere I was old!

YOUTH AND AGE.

Ere I was old! Ah, woful Ere!
Which tells me Youth's no longer here.
O Youth! For years so many and sweet
"Tis known that thou and I were one;
I'll think it but a fond conceit;
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled,
And thou wert aye a masker bold.
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size;
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought; so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve.
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
When we are old:

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking leave;
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudely be dismissed,
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLEridge.

TO MARY.

THE twentieth year is well-nigh past
Since first our sky was overcast ;

Ah, would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow;

I see thee daily weaker grow:

'Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore,

Now rust disused, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil
The same kind office for me still,
Thy sight now seconds not thy will,

My Mary!

But well thou playedst the housewife's part; And all thy threads, with magic art,

Have wound themselves about this heart,

My Mary!

TO MARY.

Thy indistinct expressions seem

Like language uttered in a dream;

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme,
My Mary!

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright,
Are still more lovely in my sight
Than golden beams of orient light,

My Mary!

For, could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

Partakers of thy sad decline,

My Mary!

Thy hands their little force resign;
Yet, gently pressed, press gently mine,
My Mary!

Such feebleness of limbs thou provest,
That now at every step thou movest
Upheld by two; yet still thou lovest,
My Mary!

And still to love, though pressed with ill,
In wintry age to feel no chill,

With me is to be lovely still,

My Mary!

But ah! by constant heed I know
How oft the sadness that I show

Transforms thy smiles to looks of woe,

My Mary!

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

And should my future lot be cast
With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

WILLIAM COWPER.

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER.

It is the miller's daughter,

And she is grown so dear, so dear, That I would be the jewel

That trembles at her ear;

For, hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck, so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,

And her heart would beat against me

In sorrow and in rest;

And I should know if it beat right,
I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

And all day long to fall and rise
Upon her balmy bosom

With her laughter or her sighs;
And I would lie so light, so light,
I scarce should be unclasped at night.

ALFRED TENNYSON.