Angel, my angel, the old man's hand | So I look up as I follow the tone, Knoweth thy silver way. 1 loose thy lips from their silenceband And over thy heart-strings my fingers play, While the song peals forth from thy mellow throat, And my spirit climbs on the climb- Till I mingle thy tone with the Up with my dim old eyes, And I wonder if organs have angels alone, Or if, as my fancy might almost surmise, Each man in his heart folds an angel with wings, An angel that slumbers, but vakens When thrilled by the touch that is Old age comes on apace to ravage all Bright through the eternal year of the clime. Love's triumphant reign. ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. MORTALITY, behold and fear Where from their pulpits seal'd with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed Here are sands, ignoble things, |