Then mourn not death; 'tis but a stair Built with divinest art,

Up which the deathless footsteps climb

Of loved ones who depart.

LIGHT ON THE CLOUD.

It is dark on only the downward side;
Though rage the tempest loud,
And scatter its terrors far and wide,
There's light upon the cloud.

And often, when it traileth low,
Shutting the landscape out,
And only the chilly east-winds blow
From the foggy seas of doubt,

sky,

There's never a vale so fair, But over it sometimes shadows lie In a chill and songless air.

But never a cloud o'erhung the day, And flung its shadows down,

But on its heaven-side gleamed some ray

Forming a sunshine crown.

sun,

When the joys of life seem few, A rift will break in the evening dim, stream And the golden light through.

And the soul a glorious bridge will make

Out of the golden bars,
And all its priceless treasures take
Where shine the eternal stars.

THE OLD MAN'S MOTTO. "GIVE me a motto," said a youth To one whom years had rendered wise; "Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth,

That briefest syllables comprise; Some word of warning or of cheer To grave upon my signet here.

"And, reverend father," said the boy;

"Since life, they say, is ever made A mingled web of grief and joy; Since cares may come and pleasures fade,

Pray, let the motto have a range
Of meaning matching every change.”

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!

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;

The blackbird and the speckled thrush Good-morrow gave from brake and bush:

In answer cooed the cushat dove Her notes of peace, and rest, and love.

[From The Lady of the Lake.]

A SCENE IN THE HIGHLANDS.

THE western waves of ebbing day
Rolled o'er the glen their level way;
Each purple peak, each flinty spire,
Was bathed in floods of living fire,
But not a setting beam could glow
Within the dark ravines below,
Where twined the path in shadow
hid,

Round many a rocky pyramid,
Shooting abruptly from the dell
Its thunder-splintered pinnacle;
Round many an insulated mass,
The native bulwarks of the pass,
Huge as the tower which builders
vain
Presumptuous piled on Shinar's plain.
The rocky summit, split and rent,
Formed turret, dome, or battlement,
Or seemed fantastically set
With cupola or minaret,
Wild crests as pagod ever decked
Or mosque of Eastern architect.
Nor were these earth-born castles
bare,

Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed,

Far o'er the unfathomable glade,
All twinkling with the dewdrops

sheen,

The brier-rose fell in streainers green, And creeping shrubs, of thousand dyes,

Waved in the west-wind's summer sighs.

Boon nature scattered, free and wild, Each plant or flower, the mountain's child,

Here eglantine embalmed the air, Hawthorn and hazel mingled there; The primrose pale and violet flower, Found in each cliff a narrow bower;

Fox-glove and night-shade, side by side,

Emblems of punishment and pride, Grouped their dark hues with every stain

The weather-beaten crags retain. With boughs that quaked at every breath,

Gray birch and aspen wept beneath;
Aloft the ash and warrior oak
Cast anchor in the rifted rock;
And, higher yet, the pine-tree hung
His shattered trunk, and frequent
flung,

Where seemed the cliffs to meet on high,

His boughs athwart the narrowed Highest of all, where white peaks sky. glanced,

Where glist'ning streamers waved and danced,

The wanderer's eye could barely view The summer heaven's delicious blue; So wondrous wild, the whole might