POEMS.

THE POET'S LICENSE.

THE Poet's License!- Some there are

Who hold the false opinion

'Tis but a meagre privilege

Confined to Art's dominion;

The right to rhyme quite unrestrained
By certain rigid fetters

Which bind the colder men of prose

Within the realm of letters.

Ah no!

-I deem 't is something more,

And something vastly higher,

To which the proudest bard on earth
May worthily aspire.

The Poet's License! 't is the right,

Within the rule of duty,

To look on all delightful things

Throughout the world of beauty.

To gaze with rapture at the stars
That in the skies are glowing;
To see the gems of perfect dye
That in the woods are growing,—
And more than sage astronomer,
And more than learned florist,
To read the glorious homilies
Of Firmament and Forest.

When Nature gives a gorgeous rose,
Or yields the simplest fern,
She writes this motto on the leaves, —
"To whom it may concern!"

And so it is the poet comes

And revels in her bowers,

And, though another hold the land,

Is owner of the flowers.

O nevermore let Ignorance

With heedless iteration

Repeat the phrase as meaning aught
Of trivial estimation;

The Poet's License! - 't is the fee
Of earth and sky and river
To him who views them royally,
To have and hold forever!

5

TREASURE IN HEAVEN.

RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED TO GEORGE PEABODY, Esq.

"What I spent, I had; what I kept,

I lost; what I gave, I have!"

OLD EPITAPH.

E

I.

VERY coin of earthly treasure

We have lavished, upon earth,
For our simple worldly pleasure,
May be reckoned something worth;
For the spending was not losing,
Though the purchase were but small;
It has perished with the using;
We have had it, that is all!

II.

All the gold we leave behind us
When we turn to dust again
(Though our avarice may blind us),

We have gathered quite in vain ;
Since we neither can direct it,

By the winds of fortune tossed,

Nor in other worlds expect it ;
What we hoarded, we have lost.

(Seed of pity wisely sown), What we gave in self-negation, We may safely call our own;

For the treasure freely given

Is the treasure that we hoard,
Since the angels keep in Heaven
What is lent unto the Lord!

I'M GROWING OLD.

MY days pass pleasantly away;

My nights are blest with sweetest sleep;

I feel no symptoms of decay;

I have no cause to mourn nor weep;

My foes are impotent and shy;

My friends are neither false nor cold, And yet, of late, I often sigh, —

I'm growing old!

My growing talk of olden times,
My growing thirst for early news,
My growing apathy to rhymes,

My growing love of easy shoes,
My growing hate of crowds and noise,
My growing fear of taking cold,
All whisper, in the plainest voice,
I'm growing old!

I'm growing fonder of my staff;
I'm growing dimmer in the eyes;
I'm growing fainter in my laugh ;

I'm growing deeper in my sighs;
I'm growing careless of my dress;
I'm growing frugal of my gold;
I'm growing wise; I'm growing, yes,
I'm growing old!