A New Library of Poetry and Song

Let both their true reality impart,

And fix their record deeply in my heart, Lord, keep my memory green!

Lord, keep my memory green

Through life's conflicting scene!

But should the hand of Time obliterate

""T is Folly's blank, and Wisdom's highest prize!"

I asked a spirit lost, but O the shriek

That pierced my soul! I shudder while I speak.
It cried, "A particle! a speck ! a mite

Aught from my mind, and some chance pages blot, Of endless years, duration infinite!'
Let friends and benefits be ne'er forgot,

Lord, keep my memory green!

THE ROSE-BUSH.

ANONYMOUS.

A CHILD sleeps under a rose-bush fair,
The buds swell out in the soft May air;
Sweetly it rests, and on dream-wings flies
To play with the angels in Paradise.
And the years glide by.

A maiden stands by the rose-bush fair,
The dewy blossoms perfume the air;
She presses her hand to her throbbing breast,
With love's first wonderful rapture blest.
And the years glide by.

A mother kneels by the rose-bush fair,
Soft sighs the leaves in the evening air;
Sorrowing thoughts of the past arise,
And tears of anguish bedim her eyes.

And the years glide by.

Naked and lone stands the rose-bush fair,
Whirled are the leaves in the autumn air,
Withered and dead they fall to the ground,
And silently cover a new-made mound.
And the years glide by.

From the German, by WILLIAM W. CALDWELL.

WHAT IS TIME?

I ASKED an aged man, with hoary hairs,
Wrinkled and curved with worldly cares:
"Time is the warp of life," said he; "O, tell
The young, the fair, the gay, to weave it well!"
I asked the ancient, venerable dead,
Sages who wrote, and warriors who bled:
From the cold grave a hollow murmur flowed,
"Time sowed the seed we reap in this abode !"
I asked a dying sinner, ere the tide
Of life had left his veins: "Time!" he replied;
"I've lost it! ah, the treasure!" and he died.
I asked the golden sun and silver spheres,
Those bright chronometers of days and years:
They answered, "Time is but a meteor glare,"
And bade me for eternity prepare.

I asked the Seasons, in their annual round,

Of things inanimate my dial I
Consulted, and it made me this reply, -
"Time is the season fair of living well,
The path of glory or the path of hell."
I asked my Bible, and methinks it said,
"Time is the present hour, the past has fled;
Live! live to-day! to-morrow never yet
On any human being rose or set."

I asked old Father Time himself at last ;
But in a moment he flew swiftly past;
His chariot was a cloud, the viewless wind
His noiseless steeds, which left no trace behind.
I asked the mighty angel who shall stand

One foot on sea and one on solid land:

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In a thousand pounds of law I find not a single | Compared to a tree's foliage: in its prime, ounce of love; A mass of dark, impenetrable shade, A blind man killed the parson's cow in shooting It veils the distant view; but day by day, at the dove; As autumn's breath is felt, the falling leaves, The fool that eats till he is sick must fast till he Opening a passage for the doubtful light, is well; Exhibit to the gazer more and more The wooer who can flatter most will bear away Of that which lies beyond — till winter comes, the belle. And through the skeleton branches we behold The clear, blue vault of day!

"Let no man halloo he is safe till he is through the wood;

He who will not when he may, must tarry when he should;

He who laughs at crooked men should need walk very straight;

O, he who once has won a name may lie abed

ANONYMOUS.

THE Soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has

made.

EDMUND WALLER

THE THREE WARNINGS.

THE tree of deepest root is found
Least willing still to quit the ground ;
'T was therefore said by ancient sages,
That love of life increased with years
So much, that in our latter stages,
When pains grow sharp and sickness rages,
The greatest love of life appears.

This great affection to believe,
Which all confess, but few perceive,
If old assertions can't prevail,

Be pleased to hear a modern tale.

When sports went round, and all were gay,
On neighbor Dodson's wedding-day,
Death called aside the jocund groom
With him into another room,
And, looking grave, "You must," says he,
"Quit your sweet bride, and come with me."
"With you! and quit my Susan's side?
With you!" the hapless husband cried ;
"Young as I am, 't is monstrous hard!
Besides, in truth, I 'm not prepared :
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So Death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,

His hour-glass trembled while he spoke -
"Neighbor," he said, "farewell! no more
Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour;
And further, to avoid all blame

Of cruelty upon my name,
To give you time for preparation,
And fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you 're summoned to the grave;

Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve,

In hopes you'll have no more to say, But when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave." To these conditions both consented, And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,

And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :

He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,

Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

He passed his hours in peace.
But while he viewed his wealth increase,
While thus along life's dusty road
The beaten track content he trod,
Old Time, whose haste no mortal spares,
Uncalled, unheeded, unawares,

Brought on his eightieth year.

And now, one night, in musing mood,
As all alone he sate,

The unwelcome messenger of Fate
Once more before him stood.

Half killed with anger and surprise, "So soon returned!" Old Dodson cries. "So soon, d' ye call it!" Death replies ; "Surely, my friend, you 're but in jest! Since I was here before

'T is six-and-thirty years at least, And you are now fourscore."

"So much the worse," the clown rejoined ; "To spare the aged would be kind : However, see your search be legal ; And your authority, is 't regal? Else you are come on a fool's errand, With but a secretary's warrant. Beside, you promised me three warnings, Which I have looked for nights and mornings; But for that loss of time and ease I can recover damages."

"I know," cries Death, "that at the best I seldom am a welcome guest; But don't be captious, friend, at least: I little thought you 'd still be able To stump about your farm and stable : Your years have run to a great length; I wish you joy, though, of your strength!" "Hold," says the farmer, "not so fast! I have been lame these four years past."

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A New Library of Poetry and Song, 第 2 卷