Never does the streamlet glide Wait not till to-morrow's sun All that thou canst call thine own Power, intellect, and health May not, cannot last; With the water that has passed." Oh, the wasted hours of life Oh, the good we might have done, Love that we might once have saved Thoughts conceived, but never penned, Take the proverb to thine heart, Take! oh, hold it fast! "The mill will never grind With the water that has passed." SARAH DOUDNEY. THE IVY GREEN Oн, a dainty plant is the Ivy Green, Of right choice food are his meals, I ween, The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim; And the mouldering dust that years have made Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the Ivy Green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, How closely he twineth, how tight he clings As he joyously hugs and crawleth around Creeping where grim death has been, Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations have scattered been; For the stateliest building man can raise Creeping on, where time has been, SWEET CLOVER CHARLES DICKENS. WITHIN what weeks the melilot Save that 't was while the year is glad. Am steeped in memory as with wine. Though Winter chills or Summer cheers, It writes along the weeks its song, Even as my youth sings through my years. WALLACE RICE. A HUNDRED YEARS TO COME A hundred years to come? The flowers that now in beauty spring, The rosy lip, the lofty brow, The heart that beats so gaily now, Joy's pleasant smile, and sorrow's sigh, A hundred years to come? Who 'Il press for gold this crowded street, Who 'll tread yon church with willing feet, Pale, trembling age, and fiery youth, We all within our graves shall sleep WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN. VERTUE SWEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright, Sweet Rose, whose hue, angrie and brave, And thou must die. Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses, My musick shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and vertuous soul, Like seasoned timber, never gives ; But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. GEORGE HERBERT. WHERE LIES THE LAND WHERE lies the land to which the ship would go ? Far, far ahead, is all her seamen know; And where the land she travels from? Away, On sunny noons upon the deck's smooth face, On stormy nights, when wild northwesters rave, Where lies the land to which the ship would go? ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH. A FAREWELL My fairest child, I have no song to give to you; Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever; CHARLES KINGSLEY. AFTER THE BALL THEY sat and combed their beautiful hair, Idly they talked of waltz and quadrille ; Comb out their braids and curls. Robes of satin and Brussels lace, For the revel is through. And Maud and Madge in robes of white, Sit and comb their beautiful hair, Those wonderful waves of brown and gold, Then out of the gathering winter chill, Maud and Madge in robes of white, Float along in a splendid dream, Flashing of jewels and flutter of laces, To the golden gittern's strain, Two and two, they dreamily walk, Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb, Only one for the bridal pearls, The robe of satin and Brussels lace Only one to blush through her curls O beautiful Madge, in your bridal white, But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night But robed and crowned with your saintly bliss, Queen of heaven and bride of the sun, O beautiful Maud, you 'll never miss The kisses another hath won! NORA PERRY, |