"Slow pass our days
In childhood, and the hours of night as long.
Betwixt the morn and eve with swifter lapse
They glide in manhood, and in age they fly;
Till days and seasons fled before the mind,
As fled the snow-flakes in a winter-storm,
Seen rather than distinguished." BRYANT,
"To each unthinking being, Heaven a friend,
Gives not the useless knowledge of its end;
To man imparts it but with such a view
As while he dreads it makes him hope it too
The hour concealed, and so remote the fear,
Death still draws nearer, never seeming near.'
POPE Essay on Man, Ess. 3.
An hour seems endless, and a month an age,
Unto the infant playing with its toy ;
(The may-fly tastes a long life's round of joy)
The youth, who, like some wild bird in its cage,
Struggling for freedom, panteth to engage
In manhood's action, and cast off the Boy,
Counts the slow hours, who will their wings employ
How swiftly, when he turneth life's last page!
Ah! who could bear old age's thrall and throe,
Should Time to lengthen out with life appear,
Not rush on, river-like, with speedier flow,
From source to sea; so that each coming year,
As closer homeward to our God we go,
Still shorter seems, as well as brings more near.
Magister artis docte piscatoriæ,
Waltone, salve! magni dux arundinis,
Seu tu reduetâ valle solus ambulas,
Præterfluentes interim observans aquas,
Seu forte puri stans in amnis margine,
Sive in tenaci gramine et ripâ sedens,
Fallis peritâ squameum pecus manu,
O te beatum! qui procnl negotiis
Fori que et urbis pulvere et strepitu careas,
Extraque turbam ad lene manantes aquas
Vagos honestâ fraude pisces decipis." JAMES DUPort.
No angler I; but yet I love the name
Of that old angler Izaak, and his book:
He was a simple, merry man, who took
Heartfelt delight in all things without blame :
Here might he stand, watching his finny game
Beneath the hollow margin of the brook,
Or sit him shower-sheltered in yon nook,
Teaching his friend the fisher's art and aim.
I watch him listening to the milk-maid's song,
Or resting in the wayside inn, where sheets,
That smell of lavender, yield balmy sleep;
Now up ere dawn, and trudging miles along
To his old haunts and pastoral retreats,
Where the chub lurketh, or the salmon leap.
"Study to be quiet." 1. Thessal. iv. 11.
Not praise nor popularity mine ends;
I have not sought by gorgeous pageantry
Of dazzling words, or startling imag'ry,
To storm the world*; but, as a friend to friends,
In simple strain my inmost thought unbends;
No startling theme of Kings or War I try;
No tale of false love, or true chivalry;
But as a twittering bird, nest-building, blends
Together, one by one, straws, feathers, moss,
My scraps I gather from life's broad highway :
Not, therefore, worthy of contempt my lay;
Home truths, though homely, are true gold, not dross ;
Fashion I care not for, content to find
'Fit though few' audience of a kindred mind.
*"For highest looks have not the highest mind,
Nor haughty words most full of highest thoughts;
But are like bladders blowen up with wind,
That being prick't do vanish into nought.-SPENSER.
There lies a hush of wonder on the world;
And now the Nations break out into cheers;
For lo! at last victorious Peace appears,
Borne on the chariot of the War-God, hurl'd
For ever to night's realms: to Heaven unfurl'd
Her banner, stainless as the snow, she rears;
Slow tramp her steeds, four silky milk-white steers;
A wreath of corn-ears round her brows is curl'd ;
She clasps a golden sickle in her hand;
Her robes are radiant as a glistering file
Of cranes that fly against the Indian sun :
Her shoulders, lately pinioned, are unvann'd;
For her last flight from earth is past and done :
As Ocean's countless-rippled smile, her smile.
We are as travellers half-way up a hill,
Who look, at sunrise, on a savage race
Struggling amid the forests at its base :
We boast the proud pre-eminence we fill,
Forgetting what dim light enshrouds them still:
With ease, from our high vantage-ground we trace
The labyrinthine paths of that drear place,
And all its plan unravel at our will.
We marvel at their errors, but ne'er think
How darkness baffles that poor crowd below.
The time shall come, when from the topmost height,
Mid full effulgence of the mid-day light,
A glance at our march, zigzag, toilsome, slow,
Us fancied giants into dwarfs shall shrink.
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