18 AUGUST 1888, Page 17

TO AN INFANT, WITH A WATCH IN HIS HAND.

NOT the grey spectre of the scythe and sand,

And soundless wings subversive in their flight, Not he, the wasteful wizard prone to blight And crumble all that hopeful men have planned, Frowns on us here. Careless to understand

Symbol or measure of Time's speed and might,

This infant grasps a watch with quick delight As a quaint plaything for his tiny hand.

The hours, the minutes, gliding 'neath the glass,

Evade his notice in their tardy pace ; But he remarks the lightsome seconds pass,

And laughs to hear their footfalls as they race,—

Ignorant that each chronicles, alas !

A silenced heart for Death's still resting-place.

J. S. D.