Sae dear that joy was bought, John, To the land o' the leal. Oh! dry your glistening e'e, John, To the land o' the leal. Oh! haud ye leal and true, John, To the land o' the leal. Now fare ye weel, my ain John, In the land o' the leal. - LADY NAIRNE. 33. GROWING OLD. WHAT is it to grow old? Is it to lose the glory of the form, The lustre of the eye? Is it for beauty to forego her wreath? Yes, but not this alone. Is it to feel our strength Not our bloom only, but our strength - decay? Is it to feel each limb Grow stiffer, every function less exact, Each nerve more weakly strung? Yes, this, and more! but not, Ah, 'tis not what in youth we dream'd 'twould be! 'Tis not to have our life Mellow'd and soften'd as with sunset glow, 'Tis not to see the world As from a height, with rapt prophetic eyes, And weep, and feel the fulness of the past, It is to spend long days And not once feel that we were ever young. In the hot prison of the present, month It is to suffer this, And feel but half, and feebly, what we feel. Festers the dull remembrance of a change, none. - last stage of all When we are frozen up within, and quite To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost - MATTHEW ARNOLD. 34. TO MY GRANDMOTHER. THIS Relative of mine, By the canvas may be seen How she looked at seventeen, Beneath a summer tree, Her maiden reverie Has a charm; Her ringlets are in taste; What an arm! . . . what a waist For an arm! With her bridal-wreath, bouquet, Falbala, If Romney's art be true, Her lips are sweet as love; Beseechingly, and seem To say, "Come!" What funny fancy slips From atween these cherry lips? Whisper me, In mercy she was borne Where the weary and the worn Oh, if you now are there, And sweet as once you were, Grandmamma, This nether world agrees You'll all the better please - FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON. 35. UP-HILL. Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn till night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn. Shall I meet other wayfarers at night? Those who have gone before. Then must I knock, or call when just in sight? Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak? Will there be beds for me and all who seek? - CHRISTINA ROSSETTI. |