I see it in my changing taste;

I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;

I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,
As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,
I'm growing old!

Ah me!

- my very laurels breathe
The tale in my reluctant ears,
And every boon the Hours bequeath
But makes me debtor to the Years!
E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare
The secret she would fain withhold,
And tells me in "How young you are!"
I'm growing old!

Thanks for the years! — whose rapid flight

My sombre Muse too sadly sings;

Thanks for the gleams of golden light

That tint the darkness of their wings; The light that beams from out the sky,

Those heavenly mansions to unfold Where all are blest, and none may sigh, "I'm growing old!"

THE STORY OF LIFE.

SAY,

AY, what is life? 'Tis to be born; A helpless Babe, to greet the light With a sharp wail, as if the morn Foretold a cloudy noon and night;

To weep, to sleep, and weep again,
With sunny smiles between; and then?

And then apace the infant grows
To be a laughing, puling boy,
Happy, despite his little woes,

Were he but conscious of his joy;
To be, in short, from two to ten,
A merry, moody Child; and then?

And then, in coat and trousers clad,
To learn to say the Decalogue,
And break it; an unthinking Lad,
With mirth and mischief all agog;

'A truant oft by field and fen
To capture butterflies; and then?

And then, increased in strength and size,
To be, anon, a Youth full-grown ;

A hero in his mother's eyes,

A young Apollo in his own;
To imitate the ways of men
In fashionable sins; and then?

And then, at last, to be a Man;

To fall in love; to woo and wed; With seething brain to scheme and plan; To gather gold, or toil for bread; To sue for fame with tongue or pen, And gain or lose the prize; and then?

And then in gray and wrinkled Eld

To mourn the speed of life's decline; To praise the scenes his youth beheld,

And dwell in memory of Lang-Syne; To dream awhile with darkened ken, Then drop into his grave; and then?

THE

MY CASTLE IN SPAIN.

HERE's a castle in Spain, very charming to see,
Though built without money or toil;

Of this handsome estate I am owner in fee,

And paramount lord of the soil;

And oft as I may I'm accustomed to go

And live, like a king, in my Spanish Chateau !

There's a dame most bewitchingly rounded and ripe, Whose wishes are never absurd;

Who does n't object to my smoking a pipe,

Nor insist on the ultimate word;

In short, she's the pink of perfection, you know; And she lives, like a queen, in my Spanish Chateau !

I've a family too; the delightfulest girls,
And a bevy of beautiful boys;

All quite the reverse of those juvenile churls
Whose pleasure is mischief and noise;
No modern Cornelia might venture to show
Such jewels as those in my Spanish Chateau !

I have servants who seek their contentment in mine, And always mind what they are at ;

Who never embezzle the sugar and wine,

And slander the innocent cat;

Neither saucy, nor careless, nor stupidly slow
Are the servants who wait in my Spanish Chateau !

I have pleasant companions; most affable folk;
And each with the heart of a brother;

Keen wits, who enjoy an antagonist's joke,

And beauties who're fond of each other;
Such people, indeed, as you never may know,
Unless you should come to my Spanish Chateau !

I have friends, whose commission for wearing the name In kindness unfailing is shown;

Who pay to another the duty they claim,

And deem his successes their own;

Who joy in his gladness, and weep at his woe;
You'll find them (where else?) in my Spanish Chateau !

"O si sic semper!" I oftentimes say,

(Though 't is idle, I know, to complain,) To think that again I must force me away From my beautiful castle in Spain !

Ah! would that my stars had determined it so
I might live the year round in my Spanish Chateau !

SPES EST VATES.

HERE is a saying of the ancient sages:

THE

No noble human thought,

However buried in the dust of ages,

Can ever come to naught.

With kindred faith, that knows no base dejection,

Beyond the sages' scope

I see, afar, the final resurrection

Of every glorious hope.

I see, as parcel of a new creation,
The beatific hour

When every bud of lofty aspiration

Shall blossom into flower.

We are not mocked; it was not in derision
God made our spirits free;

The poet's dreams are but the dim prevision
Of blessings that shall be, -

When they who lovingly have hoped and trusted, Despite some transient fears,

Shall see Life's jarring elements adjusted,

And rounded into spheres!

THE GIFTS OF THE GODS.

THE

~HE saying is wise, though it sounds like a jest, That “The gods don't allow us to be in their debt,"

For though we may think we are specially blest,
We are certain to pay for the favors we get !

Are Riches the boon? Nay, be not elate;
The final account is n't settled as yet;
Old Care has a mortgage on every estate,
And that's what you pay for the wealth that you get!

Is Honor the prize? It were easy to name
What sorrows and perils her pathway beset;
Grim Hate and Detraction accompany Fame,
And that's what you pay for the honor you get!