How fast each wave about us flees,
How fast the low clouds float!

"We'll never see the morning skies,
If the wind rise."

"If the wind rise,

We'll hear no more of earthly lies."

The moon from time to time breaks out,
And silvers all the sea;

The billows toss their waves about;

The little boat leaps free.

"We'll never see our true love's eyes,

If the wind rise."

"If the wind rise,

We'll waste no more our foolish sighs."

She takes a dash of foam before,

A dash of spray behind;

The wolfish waves about her roar,

And gallop with the wind.

"We'll see no more the woodland dyes,

If the wind rise."

"If the wind rise,

We 'll hear the last of human cries."

The sky seems bending lower down,
And swifter sweeps the gale;

Our craft she shakes from heel to crown,
And dips her fragile sail.

"We may forgive our enemies,

If the wind rise."

"If the wind rise,

We'll sup this night in Paradise."

467

JOSEPH O'Connor.

I'm growing Old.

Y days pass pleasantly away;

MY

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;

I feel no symptoms of decay ;

I have no cause to mourn nor weep;

My foes are impotent and shy;

My friends are neither false nor cold,

And yet, of late, I often sigh,

I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,

My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper, in the plainest voice,

I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh;
I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing, — yes,
I'm growing old!

I see it in my changing taste;
I see it in my changing hair ;

I see it in my growing waist;
I see it in my growing heir;

A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,

I'm growing old !

THE OLD MAN DREAMS.

Ah me! my very laurels breathe

The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!

Thanks for the years! - whose rapid flight
My sombre Muse too sadly sings;
Thanks for the gleams of golden light

That tint the darkness of their wings;
The light that beams from out the sky,
Those heavenly mansions to unfold,
Where all are blest, and none may sigh
"I'm growing old!"

469

JOHN GODFREY SAXE.

The Old Man dreams.

H for one hour of youthful joy! Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy Than reign a gray-beard king!

!

Off with the wrinkled spoils of age
Away with learning's crown!
Tear out life's wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!

One moment let my life-blood stream
From boyhood's fount of flame!
Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame!

My listening angel heard the prayer,
And, calmly smiling, said,
"If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.

"But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay,

While the swift seasons hurry back

To find the wished-for day?

Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind:
I'll take
- my — precious — wife!

--

— The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew,
"The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too!"

"And is there nothing yet unsaid
Before the change appears?
Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years!"

Why, yes; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys;

I could not bear to leave them all;
I'll take -my-girl-and-boys!

The smiling angel dropped the pen,

66

Why, this will never do ;

The man would be a boy again,

And be a father too!"

And so I laughed, my laughter woke

The household with its noise,

And wrote my dream when morning broke,

To please the gray-haired boys.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

THE FOUNT OF CASTALY.

471

The Fount of Castaly.

I

WOULD the Fount of Castaly
Had never wet my lips,
For woe to him that hastily
Its sacred water sips!

Apollo's laurel flourishes

Above that stream divine; Its secret virtue nourishes

The plants of love and wine.

No Dryad, Faun, or Nereid
Preserves its haunts in charge,
Or watches o'er the myriad
Of flowers about its marge.

But aye around the caves of it
The Muses chant their spells,
And charm the very waves of it
As out the fountain wells.

Its joyous tide leaps crystally
Up 'neath the crystal moon,
And falling ever mistily,

The sparkling drops keep tune!

The wavelets circle gleamily,

With lilies keeping trysts; Fair emeralds glimmer dreamily Below, and amethysts.

Once taste that fountain's witchery

On old Parnassus' crown, And to this world of treachery, Ah, nevermore come down!

Your joy will be to think of it;

'T will ever haunt your dreams; You'll thirst again to drink of it Among a thousand streams!

JOSEPH O'CONNOR.