In the days of my youth, Father William replied, I remember'd that youth would fly fast,

And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried,
And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now tell me the reason, I pray.

In the days of my youth, Father William replied,
I remember'd that youth could not last,

I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past.

You are old, Father William, the young man cried, And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death, Now tell me the reason, I pray.

I am cheerful, young man, Father William replied, Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remember'd my God! And He hath not forgotten my age.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1774-1843.

THE CHOICE.

If Heaven the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to live ;
And all those hours propitious fate should lend,
In blissful ease and satisfaction spend,
Near some fair town I'd have a private seat,
Built uniform, not little, nor too great:

Better, if on a rising ground it stood,

On this side fields, on that a neighbouring wood,
It should within no other things contain
But what are useful, necessary, plain :

Methinks 'tis naseous, and I'd ne'er endure,
The needless pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye;
And a cool rivulet run murmuring by,
On whose delicious banks a stately row
Of shady limes or sycamores should grow.
At the end of which a silent study placed,
Should be with all the noblest authors graced ;
In some of these, as fancy would advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise;
For sure no minute brings us more content,
Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent.
I'd have a clear and competent estate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great;
As much as I could moderately spend,
A little more sometimes t'oblige a friend.

Nor should the sons of poverty repine

Too much at fortune; they should taste of mine; And all that objects of true pity were,

Should be relieved with what my wants could spare For what our Maker has too largely given,

Should be return'd in gratitude to Heaven.

JOHN POMFRET, 1667-1703.

MORN, NOON, AND EVE.

IN the morning of life, like the morning of day,
All nature is glistening with sunshine and dew:
And the blossoms of summer that bloom by our way
Appear as they never could pass from our view:
Among the sweet haunts of our childhood we roam,
As light as the wild bee that hums on the wing,
And with voice of rejoicing we gladden our home,
Like the swallows that chant from its eaves in the
spring.

In the noontide of life, like the noontide of day,
All is radiant around, beneath, and above;
And the wild-flowers expand every leaf in the ray,

And our hearts are awaked by the sunlight of love :

The young rose of beauty is fair to our eye,

And all blooming and pure in our bosom 'tis laid; And we wish in our bosom it ever could lie,

Unwither'd by tempest, unclouded by shade.

In the evening of life, like the evening of day,

The shadows descend on the woods and the bowers; And we look for the friends that were lovely and gay, But alas! they have moulder'd to dust like the flowers: Yet the star of the twilight appears in the sky,

To bear her bright lamp to the gate of the morn— So faith points our way to a region on high,

Where the friends shall be found that had left us

forlorn.

-Songs of Israel.

WILLIAM KNOX, 1789-1825.

ILKA BLADE O' GRASS KEPS ITS AIN
DRAP O' DEW.

CONFIDE ye aye in Providence, for Providence is kind, An' bear ye a' life's changes wi' a calm an' tranquil mind, Though press'd an' hemm'd on every side, hae faith an' ye'll win through,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Gin reft frae friends, or crost in love, as whiles, nae doubt, ye 've been,

Grief lies deep hidden in your heart, or tears flow frae

your een,

Believe it for the best, and trow there's good in store

for you,

For ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

In lang, lang days o' simmer, when the clear and clud less sky

Refuses ae wee drap o' rain to Nature parch'd and dry, The genial night wi' balmy breath gaurs verdure spring

anew,

An' ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

Sae, lest 'mid fortune's sunshine, we should feel ower proud an' hie,

An' in our pride forget to wipe the tear frae poor

tith's ee,

Some wee dark cluds o' sorrow come, we ken na

whence or hoo,

But ilka blade o' grass keps its ain drap o' dew.

JAMES BALLANTINE, 1808