THEY SAY I'M OLD. [EBENEZER ELLIOTT.] They say I'm old; because I'm grey, We're not old yet, but mean to be. Though sixty years and ten may doom My eyes flash flame, my heart is glad, While soars the skylark high and higher, Thou brightening cloud, that sail'st afar We're not old yet, but mean to be. IF I HAD KNOWN THOU COULDST HAVE DIED. [The Rev. CHARLES WOLFE.] If I had known thou couldst have died, And still upon that face I look, But when I speak thou dost not say If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art, I still might press thy silent heart, I do not think, where'er thou art, And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne'er seen before, As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore. SONG TO THE OLD AND NEW YEAR. A. TENNYSON.] [Music by J. BLOCKLEY. Ring out wild bells to the wild sky, Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring out the grief that saps the mind, Ring out a slowly dying cause, Ring out the want, the care, the sin, Ring out false pride in place and blood, Ring out old shapes of foul disease— Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; THE WINTER TREE. F.LIZA COOK.] [Music by J. BLOCKLEY, What a happy life was mine, When the sunbeams used to twine Like golden threads about my summer suit! Let enough of light between green Just to dry the dew that lingered at my root. What troops of friends I had When my form was richly clad, And I was fair 'mid fairest things of earth! And I heard no rougher sound Than Childhood's laugh in bold and leaping mirth. The old man sat him down And rest beneath my branches thick and bright; Kept swinging all the day, And the song-birds chattered to me through the night. The dreaming poet laid His soft harp in my shade, And sung my beauty, chorused by the bee; The village maiden came, To read her own dear name Carved on my bark, and bless the broad green treo. The merry music breathed, While the bounding dancers wreathed In mazy windings round my giant stem; And the joyous words they poured, As they trod the chequered sward, Told the green tree was a worshipped thing by them. Oh! what troops of friends I had What kind ones answered to my rustling call! In the glowing summer days, And the beautiful green tree was loved by all. But the bleak wind hath swept by, Like the skeleton's bleached tones, I stand at morning's dawn, The sunset comes and finds me still alone; Birds, poet, dancers, children-all are gone. The hearts that turn'd this way Forsake me now as though I ceased to be; I hear no minstrel's lays The very nest falls from the leafless tree. But the kind and merry train With love and smiles as ready as of yore; I must only wait to wear My robe so rich and fair, And they will throng as they have throng'd before. Oh! ye who dwell in pride, With parasites beside, Only lose your summer green leaves, and ye'll see That the courtly friends will change Into things all cold and strange, And forget ye as they do the winter tree! THE LARK. [JAMES HOGG.] Bird of the wilderness, Blithesome and cumberless, Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea! Bless'd is thy dwelling-place; Oh! to abide in the desert with thee! E |