eth not until the goal
Of all perfection stop the running soul,
Whither through life its aspirations tend.
Spring from thy height, then, for till thou art free
From earth, thy course is narrow and restrain'd!"
I said, "No! Spirit, nought were thus attain'd;
Better pause here than perish in the sea;
Man can but do his utmost--there's a length
He cannot overleap." The spectre smiled,
"Then trust to me; for though the sea be wild,
It cannot shake the sinews of my strength,--
Within my breast the fearful fall asleep,
And wake out of their terrors, calm and still,
Having outstripp'd the speed of time and ill,
And pass'd unconsciously the stormy deep."
Quicker and quicker drew I in my breath,
"If there be land beyond, receive me now;
I'll trust in thee--but, Spirit, who art thou?"
The winds bore on a murmur, "I am Death!"

THE OLDEN TIME.

O! well I mind the olden time,
The sweet, sweet olden time;
When I did long for eve all day,
And watch'd upon the new-mown grass
The shadows slowly eastward pass,
And o'er the meadows glide away,
Till I could steal, with heart elate,
Unto the little cottage-gate,
In the sweet, sweet olden time.

O! well I mind the olden time,
The sweet, sweet olden time;
How all the night I long'd for morn,
And bless'd the thrush whose early note
The silver chords of silence smote
With greetings to the day new-born;
For then again, with heart elate,
I hoped to meet her at the gate,
In the sweet, sweet olden time.

But now hath pass'd the olden time,
That sweet, sweet olden time;
And there is neither morn nor night
That bears a freight of hopes and fears,
To bless my soul in coming years
With any harvest of delight;
For never more, with heart elate,
Can I behold her at the gate,
As in the sweet, sweet olden time.

For the sake of that dear olden time,
That sweet, sweet olden time,
I look forth ever sadly still,
And hope the time may come again,
When Life hath borne its meed of pain,
And stoutly struggled up the hill,
When I once more, with heart elate,
May meet her at _another_ gate,
Beyond the blighting breath of fate,
That chill'd the sweet, sweet olden time.

FATHER AND SON.

The King call'd forth his first-born, and took him by the hand,
"Come! boy, and see the people you must soon command:

A bold and stalwart nation, dauntless in the fight,
Strong as an iron buckler to guard their monarch's rig