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We twa hae run about the braes,

And pu't the gowans fine ;
But we 've wandered mony a weary foot

Sin' auld lang syne.
We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

Frae mornin' sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roared

Sin' auld lang syne.
And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

And gie's a hand o' thine ;
And we 'll tak a right guid willie-waught

For auld lang syne.

And surely ye 'll be your pint-stoup,

And surely I 'll be mine;
And we 'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

ROBERT BURNS.

Old books to read !
Ay, bring those nodes of wit,
The brazen-clasped, the vellum-writ,

Time-honored tomes !
The same my sire scanned before,
The same my grandsire thumbed o'er,
The same his sire from college bore,
The well-earned meed

Of Oxford's domes;

Old Homer blind,
Old Horace, rake Anacreon, by
Old Tully, Plautus, Terence lie;
Mort Arthur's olden minstrelsie,
Quaint Burton, quainter Spenser, ay !
And Gervase Markham's venerie, -

Nor leave behind
The Holy Book by which we live and die.

TOO LATE.

"Ahl si la jeunesse savait - si la vieillesse pouvait !"

THERE sat an old man on a rock,

And unceasing bewailed him of Fate, -
That concern where we all must take stock,
Though our vote has no hearing or weight;

And the old man sang him an old, old song, -
Never sang voice so clear and strong
That it could drown the old man's long,

For he sang the song “ Too late! too late!"

Old friends to talk ! Ay, bring those chosen few, The wise, the courtly, and the true,

So rarely found ; Him for my wine, him for my stud, Him for my easel, distich, bud

In mountain walk !

“When we want, we have for our pains

The promise that if we but wait Till the want has burned out of our brains, Every means shall be present to sate; While we send for the napkin the soup gets

cold,

While the bonnet is trimming the face grows Sown once for food, but trodden into clay? old,

Or golden coins squandered, and still to say ? When we've matched our buttons the pat. Or drops of blood dabbling the guilty feet ? tern is sold,

Or such spilt water as in dreams must cheat And everything comes too late — too late! The throats of men in hell, who thirst alway?

" When strawberries seemed like red heavens, I do not see them here; but after death, Terrapin stew a wild dream,

God knows, I know the faces I shall see When my brain was at sixes and sevens,

Each one a murdered self, with low last breath
If my mother had 'folks' and ice-cream, “I am thyself,—what hast thou done to me?"

Then I gazed with a lickerish hunger And I — and I - thyself (lo ! each one saith),
At the restaurant man and fruit-monger - And thou thyself, to all eternity."
But O, how I wished I were younger

DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
When the goodies all came in a stream -

in a stream! “I've a splendid blood horse, and — a liver

THE FOOLISH VIRGINS.
That it jars into torture to trot;

FROM "IDYLS OF THE KING."
My row-boat's the gem of the river, —
Gout makes every knuckle a knot !

The Queen looked up, and said,
I can buy boundless credits on Paris and “O maiden, if indeed you list to sing,
Rome,

Sing, and unbind my heart, that I may weep."
But no palate for menus, no eyes for a dome - Whereat full willingly sang the little maid :
Those belonged to the youth who must tarry
at home,

“Late, late, so late! and dark the night and When no home but an attic he'd got

chill ! he'd got i

Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.

Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now. “How I longed, in that lonest of garrets,

Where the tiles baked my brains all July, “No light had we : for that we do repent; For ground to grow two pecks of carrots, And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Two pigs of my own in a sty,

Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now. A rosebush — a little thatched cottage – Two spoons — love -a basin of pottage ! - "No light; so late! and dark and chill the Now in freestone I sit — and my dotage - night! With a woman's chair empty close by — 10, let us in, that we may find the light! close by!

Too late, too late! Ye cannot enter now.

“ Ah! now, though I sit on a rock,

“Have we not heard the bridegroom is so swect ? I have shared one seat with the great ; 0, let us in, though late, to kiss his feet ! I have sat — knowing naught of the clock - No, no, too late! Ye cannot enter now." On love's high throne of state; But the lips that kissed, and the arms that So sang the novice, while full passionately, caressed,

Her head upon her hands, wept the sad Queen. To a mouth grown stern with delay were

ALFRED TENNYSON. pressed, And circled a breast that their clasp had blessed

LIFE.
Had they only not come too late - too
late!"

I MADE a posie, while the day ran by :
| “Here will I smell my remnant out, and tie

My life within this band.”

But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they LOST DAYS.

By noon most cunningly did steal away,

And withered in my hand. The lost days of my life until to-day What were they, could I see them on the My hand was next to them, and then my heart. street

I took, without more thinking, in good part Lie as they fell? Would they be ears of wheat

Time's gentle admonition ;

FITZ HUGH LUDLOW,

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And vulgar feet have never trod

What's the grandeur of the earth A spot that is sacred to thought and God.

To the grandeur round thy throne ?

Riches, glory, beauty, birth, O, when I am safe in my sylvan home, .

To thy kingdom all have gone. I tread on the pride of Greece and Rome;

Before thee stand And when I am stretched beneath the pines,

The wondrous band, — Where the evening star so holy shines,

Bards, heroes, sages, side by side, I laugh at the lore and the pride of man,

Who darkened nations when they died. At the sophist schools, and the learned clan ; For what are they all, in their high conceit,

Earth has hosts, but thou canst show
When man in the bush with God may meet?

Many a million for her one ;
RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

Through thy gates the mortal flow
Hath for countless years rolled on.

Back from the tomb

No step has come,

There fixed till the last thunder's sound THE NEVERMORE.

Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound.

GEORGE CROLY. Look in my face; my name is Might-have-been ;

I am also called No-more, Too-late, Farewell ;

Unto thine ear I hold the dead-sea shell
C'ast up thy Life's foam-fretted feet between ;

LINES
Unto thine eyes the glass where that is seen
Which had Life's form and Love's, but by my WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND

CONDEMNED TO DIE.

spell

Is now a shaken shadow intolerable,

My prime of youth is but a frost of cares ; Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. My feast of joy is but a dish of pain ;

My crop of corn is but a field of tares ;
Mark me, how still I am! But should there dart And all my good is but vain hope of gain :

One moment through my soul the soft surprise The day is (fled), and yet I saw no sun ;
Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of And now I live, and now my life is done !

sigh, Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung ; Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes.

green ; DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI. My youth is gone, and yet I am but young ;

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen :
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;

And now I live, and now my life is done!
THE GENIUS OF DEATH.

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
What is death ? 'T is to be free,

I looked for life, and saw it was a shade ; No more to love or hope or fear, . I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb; To join the great equality ;

And now I die, and now I am but made :
All, all alike are humbled there. The glass is full, and now my glass is run ;
The mighty grave

And now I live, and now my life is done!
Wraps lord and slave;

CHIDIOCK TYCHBORN.
Nor pride nor poverty dares come
Within that refuge-house, — the tomb.

EUTHANASIA.

Spirit with the drooping wing

And the ever-weeping eye,
Thou of all earth's kings art king;
Empires at thy footstool lie ;

Beneath thee strewed,

Their multitude
Sink like waves upon the shore ;
Storms shall never raise them more.

But souls that of his own good life partake,
He loves as his own self ; dear as his eye
They are to him : He 'll never them forsake :
When they shall die, then God himself shall

die ;
They live, they live in blest eternity.

HENRY MORE.

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