rveled much,
And all old England's heart throbbed to his thrilling touch.

Truth is the touchstone of all genius Art,
In poet, painter, sculptor, is the same:
What cometh from the heart goes to the heart,
What comes from effort only is but tame.
Nature the only perfect artist is:
Who studies Nature may approach her skill;
Perfection hers, but never can be his,
Though her sweet voice his very marrow thrill;
The finest works of art are Nature's shadows still.

Look not for faultless men or faultless art;
Small faults are ever virtue's parasites:
As in a picture shadows show the lights,
So human foibles show a human heart.

O while I live and linger on the brink
Let the dear Muses be my company;
Their nectared goblets let my parched lips drink;
Ah, let me drink the _soma_ of their lips!
As humming-bird the lily's nectar sips,
Or _Houris_ sip the wine of Salsabil.
Aye, let me to their throbbing music thrill,
And let me never for one moment think,
Although no laurel crown my constancy,
Their gracious smiles are false, their dearest kiss a lie.

TWENTY YEARS AGO

I am growing old and weary
Ere yet my locks are gray;
Before me lies eternity,
Behind me--but a day.
How fast the years are vanishing!
They melt like April snow:
It seems to me but yesterday--
Twenty years ago.

There's the school-house on the hill-side,
And the romping scholars all;
Where we used to con our daily tasks,
And play our games of ball.
They rise to me in visions--
In sunny dreams--and ho'
I sport among the boys and girls
Twenty years ago.

We played at ball in summer time--
We boys--with hearty will;
With merry shouts in winter time
We coasted on the hill.
We would choose our chiefs, divide in bands,
And build our forts of snow,
And storm those forts right gallantly--
Twenty years ago.

Last year in June I visited
That dear old sacred spot,
But the school-house on the hill-side
And the merry shouts were not.
A church was standing where it stood;
I looked around, but no--
I could not see the boys and girls
Of twenty years ago.

There was sister dear, and brother,
Around the old home-hearth;
And a tender, Christian mother,
Too angel-like for earth.
She used to warn me from the paths
Where thorns and brambles grow,
And lead me in the "narrow way"--
Twenty years ago.

I loved her and I honored her
Through all my boyhood years;
I knew her joys--I knew her cares--
I k