A LETTER OF ADVICE.

285

If he ever sets foot in the City

Among the stockbrokers and Jews, If he has not a heart full of pity,

If he don't stand six feet in his shoes, If his lips are not redder than roses,

If his hands are not whiter than snow, If he has not the model of noses,

My own Araminta, say "No!"

If he speaks of a tax or a duty,

If he does not look grand on his knees, If he's blind to a landscape of beauty, Hills, valleys, rocks, waters, and trees,

If he dotes not on desolate towers,

If he likes not to hear the blast blow,
If he knows not the language of flowers,—
My own Araminta, say "No!"

He must walk-like a god of old story
Come down from the home of his rest;
He must smile-like the sun in his glory
On the buds he loves ever the best;

286

A LETTER OF ADVICE.

And oh from its ivory portal

Like music his soft speech must flow If he speak, smile, or walk like a mortal, My own Araminta, say "No!"

Don't listen to tales of his bounty,
Don't hear what they say of his birth,

Don't look at his seat in the county,
Don't calculate what he is worth;

But give him a theme to write verse on,
And see if he turns out his toe;
If he's only an excellent person,

My own Araminta, say "No!"

THE PACE THAT KILLS.

W. J. PROWSE.

HE gallop of life was once exciting,

Madly we dashed over pleasant plains;

And the joy, like the joy of a brave man fighting, Poured in a flood through our eager veins.

Hot youth is the time for the splendid ardour

That stings and startles, that throbs and thrills;

And ever we pressed our horses harder,

Galloping on at the pace that kills!

So rapid the pace, so keen the pleasure,

Scarcely we paused to glance aside,

As we mocked the dullards who watched at leisure

The frantic race that we chose to ride.

288

THE PACE THAT KILLS.

Yes, youth is the time when a master-passion,
Or love or ambition, our nature fills;
And each of us rode in a different fashion-
All of us rode at the pace that kills!

And vainly, O friends! ye strive to bind us;
Flippantly, gaily, we answer you:

"Should ATRA CURA jump up behind us,

Strong are our steeds, and can carry two!"
But we find the road, so smooth at morning,
Rugged at night 'mid the lonely hills;

And all too late we recall the warning,
Weary at last of the pace that kills!

The gallop of life was just beginning;
Strength we wasted in efforts vain;

And now when the prizes are worth the winning,
We've scarcely the spirit to ride again!

The spirit, forsooth! 'Tis our strength has failed us, And sadly we ask, as we count our ills, "What pitiful, pestilent folly ailed us?

Why did we ride at the pace that kills ?"

MY LOST OLD AGE.

BY A YOUNG INVALID.

W. J. PROWSE.

'M only nine-and-twenty yet,

Though young experience makes me sage;

So, how on earth can I forget

The memory of my lost old age? Of manhood's prime let others boast;

It comes too late, or goes too soon :

At times the life I envy most

Is that of slippered pantaloon!

In days of old-a twelvemonth back!-

I laughed, and quaffed, and chaffed my fill;

T