A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?

As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?