SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I LOVE to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old, For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, I have walked the world for fourscore years; And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true; it is very true; I'm old, and "I 'bide my time:" But my heart will leap at a scene like this Play on, play on; I am with you there, I hide with you in the fragrant hay, I am willing to die when my time shall come, And I shall be glad to go; For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness, To see the young so gay. A CHILD'S FIRST IMPRESSION OF A STAR. SHE had been told that God made all the stars Filled her young heart with gladness, and the eve Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Stood looking at the west with that half-smile, Of sunset, where the blue was melted in MAY. On the merry May has pleasant hours, And dreamily they glide, As if they floated like the leaves Upon a silver tide. The trees are full of crimson buds, And the waters flow to music Like a tune with pleasant words. The verdure of the meadow-land Is creeping to the hills, The sweet, blue-bosom'd violets Are blooming by the rills; |