LIFE.

A BUSY dream, forgotten ere it fades;

A vapor, melting into air away;

Vain hopes, vain fears, a mesh of lights and shades, A checkered labyrinth of night and day

This is our life; a rapid, surging flood,

Where each wave haunts its fellow; on they press; To-day is yesterday; and Hope's young bud Has fruited a to-morrow's nothingness; Still on they press, and we are borne along, Forgetting and forgotten; trampling down The living and the dead in that fierce throng, With little heed of Heaven's smile or frown, And little care for others, right or wrong, So we in iron selfishness stand strong.

LIFE.

(FROM THE SPANISH.)

OH! let the soul its slumber break,
Arouse its senses and awake,

To see how soon

Life, with its glory, glides away,
And the stern footsteps of decay
Come rolling on.

And while we eye the rolling tide
Down which our flowing minutes glide

Away so fast,

Let us the present hour employ,

And dream each future dream of joy

Already past.

Let no vain hope deceive the mind;
No happier let us hope to find

To-morrow than to-day.

Our golden dreams of yore were bright:
Like them, the present shall delight;
Like them, decay.

Our lives like hasting streams must be,

That into one engulfing sea

Are doomed to fall,

The sea of death, whose waves roll on

O'er king and kingdom, crown and throne,
And swallow all.

Alike the river's lordly tide,
Alike the humble rivulet's glide,
To that sad wave;

Death levels poverty and pride,
And rich and poor sleep side by side
Within the grave.

Our birth is but the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,

And death the goal;

There all those glittering toys are brought:
The path alone of all unsought

Is found of all.

Say, then, how poor and little worth

Are all those glittering toys of earth

That lure us here!

Dreams of a sleep that death must break:

Alas! before it bids us wake,

NOTE. - Compare with Longfellow's translation of "Coplas de Manrique " by Don Jorge Manrique.

THROUGH LIFE.

WE slight the gifts that every season bears,
And let them fall unheeded from our grasp,
In our great eagerness to reach and clasp
The promised treasure of the coming years;
Or else we mourn some great good passed away,
And, in the shadow of our grief shut in,
Refuse the lesser good we yet might win,
The offered peace and gladness of to-day.
So through the chambers of our life we pass,
And leave them one by one and never stay,
Not knowing how much pleasantness there was
In each, until the closing of the door

Has sounded through the house and died away,
And in our hearts we sigh, "Forevermore!"

Chambers's Journal.

A CHARACTER AND A QUESTION.

A DUBIOUS, strange, uncomprehended life,
A roll of riddles with no answer found;
A sea-like soul which plummet cannot sound,
Torn with belligerent winds at mutual strife.

The god in him hath taken unto wife

A daughter of the pit, and, strongly bound
In coils of snake-like hair about him wound,
Dies, straining hard to raise the severing knife.

For such a sunken soul, what room in heaven?
For such a soaring soul, what place in hell?
Can those desires be damned, those doings shriven,
Or in some lone mid-region must he dwell
Forever? Lo! God sitteth with the seven
Stars in his hand, and shall not he judge well?

The Spectator.

WITH THE TIDE.

WAVE by wave o'er the sandy bar,

Up to the coast lights, glimmering wan,
Out of the darkness deep and far,

Slowly the tide came creeping on.
Through the clamor of billowy strife
Another voice went wailing thin;
The first faint cry of a new-born life
Broke on the night — and the tide was in.

Wave by wave o'er the sandy bar,
Back again from the sleeping town,
Back to the darkness deep and far,
Slowly the tide went dropping down.
Silence lay on the chamber of death;
Silence lay on the land about;
The last low flutter of weary breath
Fell on the night—and the tide was out.

TWO PICTURES.

SOMEBODY'S heart is gay,

And somebody's heart is sad;
For lights shine out across the way,
And a door with crape is clad.
Sadness and gladness alike
Are dwelling side by side.

Perhaps the death of an early one,
And the crowning of a bride.

Bright eyes are filled with mirth,
Pale faces bend in prayer,

And hearts beside the household hearth
Are crushed by stout despair;

Ah, sorrow and hope and joy
Are parted by thinnest walls;
But on the hearts of the thoughtless ones
No shadow of sorrow falls!

No thoughts of the funeral train
Come to the festive throng;

No hopes that the past will come again
To the anguished hearts belong;
The future 's a sunny sea

To the lovers of joy and mirth;

But the past alone to those who weep
For the sundered ties of earth.

Somebody's heart is gay,

And somebody's heart is sad;

For the lights are bright across the way, And a door with crape is clad. Sadness and gladness alike

Confront us on every side;

A wealth of smiles and a flood of tears,
With hope and sorrow allied!

WHY IS IT SO?

SOME find work where some find rest,
And so the weary world goes on;
I sometimes wonder which is best:
The answer comes when life is gone.

Some eyes sleep where some eyes wake,
And so the dreary night hours go;

Some hearts beat where some hearts break:
I often wonder why 't is so.

Some wills faint where some wills fight-
Some love the tent and some the field;

I often wonder who are right,

The ones who strive or the ones who yield.

Some hands fold where other hands
Are lifted bravely in the strife;

And so through ages and through lands
Move on the two extremes of life.

Some feet halt where some feet tread
In tireless march a thorny way;
Some struggle on where some have fled;
Some seek where others shun the fray.

Some swords rust where others clash,

Some fall back where others move on,
Some flags furl where others flash,
Until the battle has been won.

Some sleep on while others keep
The vigils of the true and brave;
They will not rest till roses creep
Around their names above a grave.

WHAT HAVE I DONE?

I LAY my finger on Time's wrist to score
The forward-surging moments as they roll;
Each pulse seems quicker than the one before;
And lo! my days pile up against my soul
As clouds pile up against the golden sun;
Alas! What have I done? What have I done?

I never steep the rosy hours in sleep,

Or hide my soul, as in a gloomy crypt;
No idle hands into my bosom creep;

And yet, as water-drops from house-eaves drip,
So, viewless, melt my days, and from me run;
Alas! What have I done? What have I done?

I have not missed the fragrance of the flowers,
Or scorned the music of the flowing rills,
Whose numerous liquid tongues sing to the hours;
Yet rise my days behind me, like the hills,
Unstarred by light of mighty triumphs won;
Alas! What have I done? What have I done?

Be still, my soul; restrain thy lips from woe!

Cease thy lament! for life is but the flower;
The fruit comes after death; how canst thou know
The roundness of its form, its depth of power?
Death is life's morning. When thy work's begun,
Then ask thyself— What yet is to be done?

LILLIAN BLANCHE FEARING.

LIFE.

(A LITERARY CURIOSITY.)

WHY all this toil for triumphs of an hour?
Life's a short summer-man is but a flower.
By turns we catch the fatal breath and die;
The cradle and the tomb, alas! how nigh.