And such have been the heights of the world's glory Which I have climbed ;-ah! weary was the steep! Amid whose glittering snows my heart grew hoary, While summer breathed upon the valleys deepIn vain-for none of all its roses won me, From toiling upward to that mountain's brow:"Tis gain'd; but ah! the weight of years is on My spirit cannot claim its birthright now! For early that inheritance was sold, For nought-like his, of old! But yet, methinks, some dewdrops of my morning Have linger'd through the long and parching day! I feel the childhood of my soul returning, FRANCES BROWNE.. And many are those who unconsciously echo the last lines of the poet Tasso, who died in his dungeon on the day preceding that appointed for his coronation as a king of song. Ye who, on wings of joyance borne, Greet there my harp which hangs forlorn Say that by unrelenting fate And years of woe oppress'd, The laurel-wreath is twined too late, What then? Will not all the Tassos of later life, who listen to the mournful knell "Too late! Too late!"-carry their divine gifts with them into a better life? Another life-spring there adorns Another youth, without the dread Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing, On skylark's wing! THOMAS HOOD. And what of the birthdays now in a desolated home, where one looks around on the vacant places of the loved? Later life brings many to that bitter lot. What home then remains for the heart but that heavenly "house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens"? To reach that, we wish for the pinions of the dove, that we also might flee away and be at rest. These feelings are most pathetically symbolized by Jean Ingelow, as a widow of later life, who has survived all, or nearly all, her family. I had a nestful of my own, Ah! happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them; but when they were grown They spread out their wings to fly- I pray you, what is the nest to me— And what is the shore where I stood to see Can I call that home where I anchor yet, Can I call that home where my heart was set, Nay, but the port where my sailor went, And the land where my nestlings be There is the home where my hopes are sent, The only home for me. Welcome is the end of life to the souls of the poor and oppressed. Look not alone on youthful prime Or manhood's active might; Man then is useful to his kind, Supported is his right: But see him on the edge of life, With cares and sorrows worn; Then age and want-Oh, ill-match'd pair! Show man was made to mourn. Many and sharp the numerous ills More pointed still, we make ourselves Makes countless thousands mourn! O Death! the poor man's dearest friend— The kindest and the best! BURNS. We have a striking poem on the sixty-second birthday of Queen Elizabeth, written by George Peele, the dramatist. It is entitled, "England's Holydays," describing the brilliant passages of arms by her knightly courtiers, on the 17th of November, 1595, when the commencement of the thirty-eighth year of her reign was celebrated at the same time with her sixty-second birthday. The poem has considerable merit, but is too long for insertion here except in parts. We pass over the beautiful invocation to the "Sacred Daughters of King Jove." Write, write, you chroniclers of time and fame, Her honour's height, and wonders of her age Wonders of her that reason's reach transcend, Write, write, you chroniclers of time and fame, From perils imminent and infinite: Clio proclaims, with golden trump and pen, O'er Europe's bounds take wing, and make thy flight Through melting air, from where the rising sun Even there and round about this earthly ball * Lead England's lonely shepherds in a dance So may she long, and ever may she go, Untouch'd of traitorous hand or treacherous foe! |