That at the root of the old tree He might have work'd for ever. 'You're overtask'd, good Simon Lee, I struck, and with a single blow At which the poor old man so long The tears into his eyes were brought, They never would have done, - I've heard of hearts unkind, kind deeds With coldness still returning ; Alas! the gratitude of men Has oftener left me mourning. W. Wordsworth I CCXX THE OLD FAMILIAR FACES HAVE had playmates, I have had companions In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a Love once, fairest among women: I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man : Ghost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood, Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, How some they have died, and some they have left me, C. Lamb CCXXI THE JOURNEY ONWARDS S slow our ship her foamy track Against the wind was cleaving, From all the links that bind us; To those we 've left behind us! When, round the bowl, of vanish'd years With smiles that might as well be tears, And when, in other climes, we meet To live and die in scenes like this, As travellers oft look back at eve Still faint behind them glowing, — T. Moore T CCXXII YOUTH AND AGE 'HERE 'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 'T is not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess : The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again. Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down ; It cannot feel for others' woes, it dare not dream its own; That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears, And though the eye may sparkle still, 't is where the ice appears. Though wit may flash from fluent lips, and mirth distract the breast, Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest; 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe, All green and wildly fresh without, but worn and gray beneath. O could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene, As springs in deserts found seem sweet, all brackish though they be, So midst the wither'd waste of life, those tears would flow to me! Lord Byron CCXXIII A LESSON HERE is a flower, the Lesser Celandine, THE That shrinks like many more from cold and rain, And the first moment that the sun may shine, Bright as the sun himself, 't is out again! When hailstones have been falling, swarm on swarm, Oft have I seen it muffled up from harm But lately, one rough day, this flower I past, I stopp'd and said, with inly-mutter'd voice, But its necessity in being old. 'The sunshine may not cheer it, nor the dew; To be a prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth, O Man! that from thy fair and shining youth |