POETRY.
LIFE is so cheap and yet so dear
We prize it, but we scorn it too, And plod our round from year to year With little or to hope or do ; Each day brings fretful cares and coil, And sorrows come, and joys depart, And we grow old with weary toil,
Or else from listlessness of heart,—
What matters which? what matters how ?
Time heedeth not our fitful moods, But stamps its signet on our brow In city life or solitudes ; And we grow old ; yet scarcely feel The incessant whirling of the wheel, Nor heed the traces that declare We are not now what once we were The world has worn us to its ways, "Do this," it says, and we obey; There is no freedom in our praise And little courage left to pray.
At moments with a sudden pain We gasp and cry for youth again, And wonder whence the joy has gone,.
Which we were wont to feed upon ; When Love with Life walked hand in hand', When 'twas a boundless bliss to dare The mighty peaks that guard the land Where wisdom dwells serenely fair,—
Dear Heaven ! how strong and rich we were,—
For joy breeds strength, and hope gives power, And knowledge is the young man's dower, And youthful dreams are fair domains, And happy thoughts are golden gains.
The dreams are gone, the rapture past, Each year moves calmly like the last, The sea that foamed with deaf'ning roam Creeps laggard-like along the shore,— We tread the footsteps of our sires With petty aims and mean desires, And idly act our little part Like puppets fashioned for a show ;— Teach us, 0 Lord! how great Thou art,. That we our greatness, too, may know.
JOILN DENNVA,
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