MY BIRTH-DAY.

"MY birth-day"- what a different

sound

That word had in my youthful ears! And how, each time the day comes round,

Less and less white its mark appears!

When first our scanty years are told,
It seems like pastime to grow old;
And as Youth counts the shining links

That Time around him binds so fast, Pleased with the task, he little thinks How hard that chain will press at last.

Vain was the man, and false as vain, Who said "were he ordained to

run

"His long career of life again,

"He would do all that he had done."

Ah, 't is not thus the voice that dwells
In sober birth-days speaks to me;
Far otherwise - of time it tells,

Lavished unwisely, carelessly:
Of counsel mockt; of talents made
Haply for high and pure designs,
But oft, like Israel's incense, laid
Upon unholy, earthly shrines;
Of nursing many a wrong desire,

Of wandering after Love too far,
And taking every meteor fire

That crost my pathway, for his star. All this it tells, and, could I trace

The imperfect picture o'er again, With power to add, retouch, efface

The lights and shades, the joy and
pain,

How little of the past would stay!
How quickly all should melt away-
All but that Freedom of the Mind

Which hath been more than wealth to me;

Those friendships, in my boyhood twined,
And kept till now unchangingly;
And that dear home, that saving ark,
Where Love's true light at last I've
found,

Cheering within, when all grows dark
And comfortless and stormy round!

1 FONTENELLE. — Si je recommençais ma carrière, je ferais tout ce que j'ai fait.”