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; And often, when it traileth low, THERE's never an always cloudless There'll come a time, near the setting 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, JOHN GODFREY SAXE. 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 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 And yet, of late, I often sigh, — My growing talk of olden times, My growing love of easy shoes, 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 see it in my changing taste; I see it in my growing heir; A thousand signs proclaim the truth, Ah me! my very laurels breathe 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 Round many a rocky pyramid, Nor lacked they many a banner fair; For, from their shivered brows displayed, Far o'er the unfathomable glade, 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; 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 |