Stole on with its deep shadows, and she still Of sunset, where the blue was melted in WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT. AMERICAN POETRY. THE LAPSE OF TIME. LAMENT Who will, in fruitless tears, The speed with which our moments fly, I sigh not over vanished years, But watch the years that hasten by. Look how they come !-a mingled crowd What! grieve that time has brought so soon As idly might I weep at noon, To see the blush of morning gone. Could I forego the hopes that glow The future-cruel were the power heart; NEVER SAY FAIL. Oh, leave me still the rapid flight That makes the changing seasons gay; The months that touch, with added grace, Time, time will seam and blanch my brow: Then haste thee, time-'tis kindness all Thou fliest, and bear'st away our woes, NEVER SAY FAIL. AMERICAN POETRY. KEEP pushing-tis wiser Than sitting aside, And dreaming and sighing And waiting the tide. Who daily march onward 329 TO A CHILD. TO A CHILD. AMERICAN POETRY. 831 THINGS of high import sound I in thine ears, Forget them not, and when earth's tempests lour, A talisman unto thee shall they be, To give thy weak arm strength-to make thy dim eye see. Seek truth, that pure celestial truth-whose birth Was in the heaven of heavens, clear, sacred, shrined In reason's light: not oft she visits earth, But her majestic port, the willing mind, Through faith, may sometimes see. Give her thy soul, Nor faint, though error's surges loudly 'gainst thee roll. Be free. Not chiefly from the iron chain, But from the one which passion forges-be The master of thyself. If lost, regain The rule o'er chance, sense, circumstance. Be free. Seek virtue.-Wear her armour to the fight; Seek virtue.-She alone is all divine; And having found, be strong, in God's own strength and thine. Truth-freedom-virtue-these, dear child, have power, In dust shall thy weak wing be dragged and soiled; Anonymous. WISHES AND REALITIES. A CHILD'S WISHES. "I WISH I were a little bird, And sail along the golden clouds, "Above the hills I'd watch him still, Ere yet I sought my rest. And many a land I then should see, "I'd fly where, round the olive bough, The vine its tendrils weaves; And shelter from the noonbeams seek Among the myrtle leaves. Now, if I climb our highest hill, How little can I see! Oh had I but a pair of wings, 66 REPLY. 'Wings cannot soar above the sky, As thou in thought canst do; Nor can the veiling clouds confine Thy mental eye's keen view. Not to the sun dost thou chant forth Thou praisest Him, before whose smile |