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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
But yet, methinks, some dewdrops of my morning Have linger'd through the long and parching
In visions of green forests, far away.
The noon was glorious, but I lost its glow ;-
And now the spring is come—but I must go Where years their sunborn blossoms cannot bring:Farewell, thou blessed spring!
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,
To flowery Pindus flee,
Against a cypress tree.
Say that by unrelenting fate
And years of woe oppress'd,
Ere Tasso sinks to rest.
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
Is here for manhood's aching head.
Take, then, oh! take the skylark's wing,
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
Far up to the heavenly blue,
And I wish I was going too.
My empty nest?
My boat sail down to the west?
Though my good man has saild?
Now all its hope has fail'd ?
And the land where my nestlings bem
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;
Supported is his right:
With cares and sorrows worn;
* * * *
Many and sharp the numerous ills
Inwoven with our frame !
Regret, remorse, and shame;
The smiles of love adorn,
* * *
O Death! the poor man's dearest friend
The kindest and the best !
Are laid with thee at rest !
From pomp and pleasure torn!
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, That keep remembrance golden register, And recommend to time's eternity Her honour's height, and wonders of her age
Wonders of her that reason's reach transcend,
Even there and round about this earthly ball