The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

But an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a Lapland night, shall lead thee to thy grave.

The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.