THE SUNSHINE ON THE WALL.
IN life's bright morn, when beam-kiss'd blooms
Are scatter'd o'er youth's radiant way,
Whose rose-leaf sweets, whose rich perfumes,
Still lure each charmed step to stray,
Joy's chalice oft, with o'erflowing brim
He drains, and basks in Pleasure's hall;
Nor dreams aught e'er shall shade or dim
The sunshine on the wall!
But age steals on, life's roses fade,
Joy's golden goblet prostrate lies
Amid the dust of hopes decay'd,
A tarnish'd, broken, worthless prize
Dark clouds foretel its dreary night,
And round existence thickly fall;
As drooping memory paints a light—
Mock sunshine on the wall!
If some such gloom o'ercast thee now,—
If reckless youth hath pluck'd the gem
Of virtue from sad manhood's brow,
And trampled on its diadem-
If errors past with grief o'erwhelm,
The contrite still to mind can call
That in a better, brighter realm,
There's sunshine for us all!
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
YE Mariners of England!
That guard our native seas;
Whose flag has braved, a thousand years,
The battle and the breeze!
Your glorious standard launch again
To match another foe!
And sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave!-
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And Ocean was their grave:
Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell,
Your manly hearts shall glow,
As ye sweep through the deep,
While the stormy tempests blow;
While the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
Britannia needs no bulwark,
No towers along the steep;
Her march is o'er the mountain waves,
Her home is on the deep.
With thunders from her native oak
She quells the floods below
As they roar on the shore,
When the stormy tempests blow;
When the battle rages loud and long,
And the stormy tempests blow.
The meteor flag of England
Shall yet terrific burn,
Till danger's troubled night depart,
And the star of peace return.
Then, then, ye ocean-warriors!
Our song and feast shall flow,
To the fame of your name,
When the storm has ceased to blow;
When the fiery fight is heard no more,
And the storm has ceased to blow.
I KNEW my father's chimney-top,
Though nearer to my heart than eye,
And watch'd the blue smoke reeking up
Between me and the winter sky.
Wayworn I traced the homeward track
My wayward youth had left with joy;
Unchanged in soul I wander'd back,
A man in years-in heart a boy.
I thought upon its cheerful hearth,
And cheerful heart's untainted glee,
And felt, of all I'd seen on earth,
This was the dearest spot to me.
WE ARE GROWING OLD TOGETHER.
J. E. CARPENTER.
WE are growing old together,
Though we scarcely mark the time;
For the heart retains its freshness,
When the form is past its prime;
We should never tell its progress
Were it not that, by our side,
Our former selves seem standing
In their beauty and their pride.
We are growing old together,
But we never knew regret,
Though we've been such old companions,
And 'tis long since first we met;
For the hearts that are united
In the bonds of faith and truth,
Though e'en the form be blighted,
Amid all retain their youth.
We are growing old together,
And though the sun may shine,
There's beauty in the mellow beam
That marks the day's decline;
And we may hope unto us
Such sunset may be given,
To gild our parting moments,
Then light our way to heaven.
ОH! call my brother back to me,
I cannot play alone;
The summer comes with flower and bee-
Where is my brother gone?
The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeams' track;
I care not now to trace its flight-
Oh! call my brother back.
The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd
Around our garden-tree;
Our vine is drooping with its load—
Oh! call him back to me.
He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;
The face that once like spring-time smiled,
On earth no more thou'lt see!
A rose's brief, bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go, thou must play alone, my boy-
Thy brother is in heaven!
And has he left the birds and flowers?
And must I call in vain;
And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?
And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er?
Oh! while my brother with me play'd,
Would I had loved him more!
TIME'S TAKINGS AND LEAVINGS.
BERNARD BARTON.
WHAT does age take away?
Bloom from the cheek, and lustre from the eye,
The spirits light and gay,
Unclouded as the summer's bluest sky.
What do years steal away?
The fond heart's idol, love, that gladden'd life;
Friendships, whose calmer sway
We trusted to in hours of darker strife.
What must with time decay?
Young Hope's wild dreams, and Fancy's visions bright;
Life's evening sky grows grey,,
And darker clouds prelude Death's coming night.
But not for such we mourn!
We knew them frail, and brief their date assign'd.
Less from Time's thefts than what he leaves behind.
What do years leave behind?
Unruly passions, impotent desires,
Distrusts, and thoughts unkind,
Love of the world, and self-which last expires.
|