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I DO NOT FEAR TO GROW OLD.
Lament who will, in fruitless tears
The speed with which our moments fly; I sigh not over vanished years,
But watch the years that hasten by.
Why grieve that time has brought so soon
The sober age of manhood on? As idly should I weep at noon
To see the blush of morning gone.
True, time will sear and blanch my brow;
Well I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass will tell me how
A grisly beard becomes me then. And should no foul dishonor lie
Upon my head when I am grey, Love yet may search iny faded eye, And smooth the path of my decay.
SAYINGS OF OLD TIME.
SAYINGS OF OLD TIME.
I WEAR not the purple of earth-born kings,
chime, And the dial to herald me, Old King Time ! Softly I creep, like a thief in the night, After cheeks all blooming and eyes all light; My steps are seen on the patriarch's brow, In the deep-worn furrows and locks of snow. Who laughs at my power? the young and the gay; But they dream not how closely I track their way. Wait till their first bright sands have run, And they will not smile at what Time hath done. I eat through treasures with moth and rust; The gorgeous palace I lay in the dust; I make the shell-proof tower my own, And break the battlement, stone from stone. Work on your cities and temples, proud man, Build high as ye may and strong as ye can ; But the marble shall crumble, the pillars shall fall, And Time, Old Time, will be king after all.
Yes, mother, fifty years have fled,
R E COLLECTION.
A firm and self-approving mind!
MARGARET MILLER DAVIDSON.
When mein'ry looks back on the record of years,
Ere reason and feeling decay ; Ere the footsteps we leave in this valley of tears
Are swept by oblivion away ; 'Tis sweet, when delight has been sobered by age,
To glance on its mirrors again,
They seem not so desolate then.
As the tempest brings calm; as the hoar frost the
spring; As the dawning disperses the day; So the sun and the shade of vicissitude Aling
A beautiful light on our way; And passions and rapture, when tempered by
thought, No trace but of happiness leave; E'en grief, when remembered, is tranquilly taught,
How vain-how ungrateful--10 grieve. Life's briars and roses—its gladness and gloom,
Do they vanish together ?-oh, no! The flow'rets we pluck, and condense their perfume,
The weeds to the desert we throw. Like the bee, thoughts fly o'er the fields of the past,
Finding sweets wheresoever they roam : They wander through sunshine and storm, and at
last Store nought but their honey at home.