These ears, that scarce can hear you, Come whispering soft and low; By the way the Past hath trod, To comfort me and guide. Think, when you're old as I am, I gave it as I died. CHARLES MACKAY. We are now arrived at the very last station on the journey of life. ODE ON THE DEATH OF A LADY, WHO LIVED ONE HUNDRED YEARS, AND DIED ON HER BIRTHDAY. Ancient dame, how wide and vast To a race like ours appears, Rounded to an orb at last All thy multitude of years! We, the herd of human kind, Frailer and of feebler powers- Soon exhaust the sum of ours. Death's delicious banquet—we Seeds of merciless disease Lurk in all that we enjoy ; And if life o'erleap the bourn Lingering on this earthly stage, Oft was seen in ages past All that we with wonder view, Often shall be to the last : Earth produces nothing new. Thee we gratulate; content, Life for us, as calmly spent, Though but half the length of thine. COWPER. And so we take our leave of THE BIRTHDAY. It comes! it comes! the natal day, It comes! it comes! a welcome day, It comes! it comes! a slighted day, It comes! to age, a solemn day, THE END. Woodfall & Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, W.C. |