MANHOOD.
NOT till life's heat has cooled, The headlong rush slowed to a quiet pace, And every purblind passion that had ruled Our noisier years, at last, Spurs us in vain, and, weary of the race, We care no more who loses or who wins- Ah ! not till all the best of life seems past The best of life begins.
To toil for only fame, Hand-clappings and the fickle gusts of praise, For place or power or gold to gild a name Above the grave whereto All paths will bring us, were to lose our days, We on whose ears youth's passing bell has tolled, In blowing bubbles, even as children do, Forgetting we grow old.
But the world widens when Such hope of trivial gain that ruled us lies Broken among our childhood's toys, for then We win to self-control And mail ourselves in manhood, and there rise
-Upon us from the vast and windless height
Those clearer thoughts that are unto the soul What stars are to the night.
A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK.
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