Fifth Series, OLD LETTERS. My letters! written in my earnest boyhood For him, myself, the self that is as dead It was myself, remember that, who wrote them, Read them once more, and note the noble life, The vast endeavor, and the desperate struggle To rise above the grovellers in the strife; The sacrifice of self for good of others; The passion at the sufferings of the poor; The angry fight 'gainst pride, and sin, and riches; The looking onward when the prize was sure. Ours too the hands to ease the overladen, Ours the strong voices whose sweet words of truth Should e'er compel a hearing from the people Who now but scoffed at our impetuous youth. The world, awakened, soon would grow much better, Soon sin and sorrow, dying in the dust, Would vanish from the earth before the sunlight Flashed from our swords, whose blades should never rust. Yet he is dead, and I am old and tired, Of that bright future they are sure to win. Ah! burn the letters. As they fall to ashes Methinks they're like our fading mortal dreams, Words upon words, and little of fulfilment Of all was promised by our youth's bright gleams! All the Year Round. FROM THE SICILIAN OF VICORTAI. THE Woodland! And a golden wedge And there, beside a bit of hedge, So tender was its beauty, and So douce and sweet its air, I stooped, and yet withheld my hand, Now which were best?-for spring will pass On maiden's breast or in the grass, |