Away with your counsels, and hinder me not-
On! on let me press to my brilliant lot!

Young, and strong, and sanguine, and free-
How knowest thou what I may be?

FORTY.

Ан, рoor youth! in pitiful truth,
Thy pride must feel a fall, poor youth:
What thou shalt be well have I seen-
Thou shalt be only what others have been.

Haply, within a few swift years,

A mind bowed down with troubles and fears,
The commonest drudge of men and things,
Instead of your-conquering heroes and kings.

Haply, to follies an early wreck

For the cloud of presumption is now like a speck, And with a whelming, sudden sweep,

The storm of temptation roars over the deep;

Lower the sail of pride, rash youth

Stand to the lowly tiller of truth;
Quick! or your limber bark shall be

The sport of the winds on a stormy sea.

Care and peril in lieu of joy

Guilt and dread may be thine, proud boy;

Lo, thy mantling chalice of life

Is foaming with sorrow, and sickness, and strife

Cheated by pleasure, and sated with pain-
Watching for honour, and watching in vain-
Aching in heart, and ailing in head,
Wearily earning daily bread.

-It is well. I discern a tear on thy cheek;
It is well-thou art humble, and silent, and meek
Now-courage again! and, with peril to cope,
Gird thee with vigour, and helm thee with hope.

For life, good youth, hath never an ill

Which hope cannot scatter, and faith cannot kill · And stubborn realities never shall bind

The free-spreading wings of a cheerful mind.

THE SONG OF SEVENTY.

I AM not old—I cannot be old,

Though threescore years and ten
Have wasted away, like a tale that is told,
The lives of other men.

I am not old; though friends and foes
Alike have gone to their graves.

And left me alone to my joys or my woes,
As a rock in the midst of the waves.

I am not old-I cannot be old,

Though tottering, wrinkled and gray;

Though my eyes are dim, and my marrow is cold, Call me not old to-day.

For early memories round me throng,

Old times, and manners, and men,
As I look behind on my journey so long
Of threescore miles and ten;

I look behind, and am once more young,
Buoyant and brave and bold,
And my heart can sing, as of yore it

Before they called me old.

I do not see her-the old wife there

Shrivelled, and haggard, and gray,

sung,

But I look on her blooming, and soft, and fair,
As she was on her wedding-day:

I do not see you, daughters and sons,
In the likeness of women and men

But I kiss you now as I kissed you once,
My fond little children then:

And, as my own grandson rides on my knee,
Or plays with his hoop or kite,

I can well recollect I was merry as he-
The bright-eyed little wight!

'Tis not long since-it cannot be long-
My years so soon were spent,

Since I was a boy, both straight and strong,
Yet now I am feeble and bent.

A dream, a dream-it is all a dream!
A strange, sad dream, good sooth;
For old as I am, and old as I seem,
My heart is full of youth:

Eye hath not seen, tongue hath not told,
And ear hath not heard it sung,

How buoyant and bold, though it seem to grow old,
Is the heart, for ever young!

For ever young-though life's old

Hath every nerve unstrung;

The heart, the heart is a heritage
That keeps the old man young!

age,

NATURE'S NOBLEMAN.

AWAY with false fashion, so calm and so chill,
Where pleasure itself cannot please;
Away with cold breeding, that faithlessly still
Affects to be quite at its ease;

For the deepest in feeling is highest in rank,
The freest is first in the band,

And Nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank,
Is a man with his heart in his hand!

Fearless in honesty, gentle yet just,

He warmly can love—and can hate,

Nor will he bow down with his face in the dust,
To Fashion's intolerant state:

For best in good breeding, and highest in rank,
Though lowly or poor in the land,

Is Nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank,
The man with his heart in his hand!

His fashion is passion, sincere and intense,

His impulses, simple and true,

Yet tempered by judgment, and taught by good sense,
And cordial with me, and with you:

For the finest in manners, as highest in rank,
It is you, man! or you, man! who stand
Nature's own nobleman, friendly and frank,
A man with his heart in his hand!

NEVER GIVE UP!

NEVER give up! it is wiser and better
Always to hope, than once to despair;
Fling off the load of Doubt's cankering fetter,
And break the dark spell of tyrannical care:
Never give up! or the burden may sink you-
Providence kindly has mingled the cup,
And in all trials or troubles, bethink you,

The watchword of life must be, Never give up!

Never give up! there are chances and changes
Helping the hopeful a hundred to one;
And through the chaos High Wisdom arranges
Ever success-if you'll only hope on:
Never give up! for the wisest is boldest,
Knowing that Providence mingles the cup,
And of all maxims the best is the oldest,

Is the true watchword of Never give up!

Never give up! though the grape-shot may rattle.
Or the full thunder-cloud over you burst;
Stand like a rock-and the storm or the battle
Little shall harm you, though doing their worst.
Never give up! if adversity presses,

Providence wisely has mingled the cup,
And the best counsel, in all your distresses,
Is the stout watchword of Never give up!

THE SUN.

BLAME not, ye million worshippers of gold-
Modern idolaters-their works and ways,
When Asia's children, in the times of old,

Knelt to the sun, outpouring prayer and praise
As to God's central throne; for when the blaze
Of that grand eye is on me, and I stand

Watching its majesty with painful gaze, I too could kneel among that Persian band,

Had not the Architect of yon bright sphere Taught me himself; bidding me look above, Beneath, around, and still to find Him-here! King of the heart, dwelling in no fix'd globe, But gladly throned within the spirit of love, Wearing that light ethereal as a robe.

ΤΗΕ ΜΟΟΝ,

I KNOW thee not, O moon!-thou caverned realm,
Sad satellite, a giant ash of death,

Where cold, alternate, and the sulphurous breath

Of ravaging volcanoes, overwhelm

All chance of life like ours-art thou not

Some fallow world, after a reaping time Of creatures' judgment, resting in thy lot? Or haplier must I take thee for the blot

On God's fair firmament, the home of crime, The prison-house of sin, where damned souls

Feed upon punishment? O thought sublime, That, amid Night's black deeds, when evil prowls Through the broad world, then, watching sinners well. Glares over all the wakeful eye of Hell!