FLY

On Time

LY envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours, Whose speed is but the heavy Plummet's pace; And glut thy self with what thy womb devours, Which is no more then what is false and vain, And merely mortal dross;

So little is our loss,

So little is thy gain.

For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,

And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd,

Then long Eternity shall greet our bliss

With an individual kiss;

And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,

When every thing that is sincerely good

And perfectly divine,

With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine

About the supreme Throne

Of him, t' whose happy-making sight alone,

When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall climb,

Then all this Earthy grossness quit,

Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,

Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee, O

Time.

JOHN MILTON

THE

OLD AGE

Old Age

HE seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more. For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time hath made:

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become

As they draw near to their eternal home.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

EDMUND WALLER

A Farewell to Arms

(TO QUEEN ELIZAbeth)

IS golden locks Time hath to silver turn'd;

HIS

O Time too swift, O swiftness never ceasing! His youth 'gainst time and age hath ever spurn'd,

But spurn'd in vain; youth waneth by increasing: Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love, are roots, and ever green.

His helmet now shall make a hive for bees;
And, lovers' sonnets turn'd to holy psalms,

CADMUS AND HARMONIA

A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, which are Age his alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His Saint is sure of his unspotted heart.

And when he saddest sits in homely cell,

He'll teach his swains this carol for a song,Blest be the hearts that wish my Sovereign well, Curst be the souls that think her any wrong.' Goddess, allow this agèd man his right

To be your beadsman now, that was your knight.

GEORGE PEELE

Cadmus and Harmonia

AR, far from here,

FAR,

The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes.
The grass is cool, the sea-side air
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers
More virginal and sweet than ours.

And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,

Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia,

Bask in the glens or on the warm sea shore,

In breathless quiet, after all their ills;

Nor do they see their country, nor the place:

Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills, Nor the unhappy Palace of their race,

Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more.

THE GATE

There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes!
They had stay'd long enough to see,
In Thebes, the billow of calamity
Over their own dear children roll'd,
"Curse upon curse, pang upon pang,

For years, they sitting helpless in their home,
A grey old man and woman; yet of old
The Gods had to their marriage come,
And at the banquet all the Muses sang.

Therefore they did not end their days.
In sight of blood; but were rapt, far away
To where the west wind plays,

And murmurs of the Adriatic come

To those untrodden mountain lawns; and there
Placed safely in changed forms, the pair
Wholly forget their first sad life, and home,
And all that Theban woe, and stray

For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.

MATTHEW ARNOLD

The Gate

AR off, and faint as echoes of a dream,

FAR

The songs of boyhood seem;

Yet on our Autumn boughs, unflown with Spring, The evening thrushes sing.

The hour draws near, howe'er delay'd and late,

When at the Eternal Gate

RABBI BEN EZRA

We leave the words and works we call our own

And lift void hands alone

For Love to fill. Our nakedness of soul
Brings to that Gate no toll;

Giftless we come to Him who all things gives,
And live because He lives.

Rabbi Ben Ezra

WHITTIER.

GRO

I

ROW old along with me!
The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all nor be afraid!'

II

Not that, amassing flowers,

Youth sighed 'Which rose make ours, Which lily leave and then as best recall?' Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned 'Nor Jove, nor Mars;

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends

them all!'