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Bear gently, suffer like a child,

Nor be ashamed of tears;

Kiss the sweet cross, and in thy heart
Sing of the eternal years.

Thy cross is quite enough for thee,
Though little it appears;

For there is hid in it the weight
Of the eternal years.

Death will have rainbows round it, seen
Through calm contrition's tears,
If tranquil Hope but trims her lamp
At the eternal years.

The Paradox of Time.

IME goes, you say? Ah no!
Alas! time stays, we go,
Or else, were this not so,
What need to chain the hours,
For youth were always ours?

Time goes, you say?-ah no!

Ours is the eyes' deceit

Of men whose flying feet

Lead through some landscape low;

We pass, and think we see
The earth's fixed surface flee

Alas, Time stays-we go!

THE PARADOX OF TIME.

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Once, in the days of old,

Your locks were curling gold,

And mine had shamed the crow;

Now, in the self-same stage,
We've reached the silver age;

Time goes, you say?-ah no!

Once, when my voice was strong,
I filled the woods with song

To praise your

"rose" and "snow":

My bird, that sung, is dead;
Where are your roses fled?

Alas, Time stays-we go!

See, in what traversed ways,
What backward fate delays

The hopes we used to know;
Where are our old desires-
Ah, where those vanished fires?

Time goes, you say?-ah no!

How far, how far, O Sweet,
The past behind our feet
Lies in the even-glow!

Now, on the forward way,
Let us fold hands and pray;

Alas, Time stays - we go!

Mortality.

H, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,

Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved,

The mother that infant's affection that proved,
The husband that mother and infant that blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwelling of rest.

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye,

Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;

And the memory of those that beloved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the scepter hath born.
The brow of the priest that the miter hath worn,
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave,
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap,

The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep,

The beggar that wandered in search of his bread,

Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

MORTALITY.

The saint that enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed,
That wither away to let others succeed;

So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that hath often been told.

For we are the same that our fathers have been;
We see the same sights that our fathers have seen,—
We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun,
And we run the same course that our fathers have run.

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The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think;
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink;
To the life we are clinging to, they too would cling;
But it speeds from the earth like a bird on the wing.

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers may come;
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ―ay! they died; and we things that are now,
Who walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain;

And the smile and the tear and the song and the dirge Still follow each other, like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath, From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud,Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?

The Bay of New York.

AVE you ever seen the Bay of New York,
That beautiful arm of the sea,

Where a navy at anchor in safety may ride, Nor fear any danger from wind or from tide, Though storms break over the lea?—

On whose waters the flags of all nations are seen,
And "Jack" always cheerful at work;
Where Commerce, white-winged, her wonders unfold
From every land bringing treasures untold,

In the beautiful Bay of New York?

Whose quiet and safety the mariner hails,

As he comes from over the main;

Where the Storm-King's cohorts held unlimited sway,
In boisterous revels by night and by day,-
While the elements loudly complain ?-

Where the emigrant's eye kindles up with delight, As he looks on the not distant shore;

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