THE OLD MAN DREAMS.

203

THE OLD MAN DREAMS.

OH, for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring!
I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy
Than reign a gray-beard king!

Off with the wrinkled spoils of age!
Away with learning's crown!
Tear out life's wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame!

-My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said

"If I but touch thy silvered hair,

Thy hasty wish hath sped.

But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?"

-Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind:

I'll take-my-precious wife!

204

THE OLD MAN DREAMS.

-The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
"The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too!"

"And is there nothing yet unsaid
Before the change appears?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years!"

Why, yes; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys;

I could not bear to leave them all;
I'll take my girl-and-boys!

The smiling angel dropped his pen,-
"Why, this will never do;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!"

And so I laughed:-my laughter woke

The household with its noise,

And wrote my dream, when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

Oliver Wendell Holmes.

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOURGLASS. 205

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOURGLASS.

A HANDFUL of red sand, from the hot clime
Of Arab deserts brought,

Within this glass becomes the spy of Time
The minister of Thought.

How many weary centuries has it been
About those deserts blown!

How many strange vicissitudes has seen,
How many histories known!

Perhaps the camels of the Ishmaelite
Trampled and passed it o'er,

When into Egypt from the patriarch's sight
His favourite son they bore.

Perhaps the feet of Moses, burnt and bare,
Crushed it beneath their tread;

Or Pharaoh's flashing wheels into the air
Scattered it as they sped;

Or Mary, with the Christ of Nazareth
Held close in her caress,

Whose pilgrimage of hope and love and faitì.
Illumed the wilderness;

Or anchorites beneath Engaddi's palms
Pacing the Dead Sea beach,

And singing slow their old Armenian psalms
In half-articulate speech:

200

SAND OF THE DESERT IN AN HOURGLASS.

Or caravans, that from Bassora's gate
With westward steps depart;

Or Mecca's pilgrims, confident of Fate,
And resolute in heart!

These have passed over it, or may have passed!
Now, in this crystal tower

Imprisoned by some curious hand at last,
It counts the passing hour.

And as I gaze, these narrow walls expand;—
Before my dreamy eye

Stretches the desert with its shifting sand,
Its unimpeded sky.

And borne aloft by the sustaining blast,
This little golden thread

Dilates into a column high and vast,
A form of fear and dread.

And onward, and across the setting sun,
Across the boundless plain,

The column and its broader shadow run,
Till thought pursues in vain.

The vision vanishes! These walls again
Shut out the lurid sun,

Shut out the hot immeasurable plain;

The half-hour's sand is run!

H. W. Longfellow.

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

207

THE KNIGHT'S TOMB.

WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!

The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.—
The Knight's bones are dust,

And his good sword rust;—

His soul is with the saints, I trust.

S. T. Coleridge.

THE ISLE.

THERE was a little lawny islet,
By anemone and violet,

Like mosaic, paven:

And its roof was flowers and leaves
Which the summer's breath enweaves,

Where nor sun nor showers nor breeze
Pierce the pines and tallest trees,—

Each a gem engraven:

Girt by many an azure wave

With which the clouds and mountains pave
A lake's blue chasm.

P. B. Shelley.