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Thus learning is bnt learned by halves,
BUSY, CURIOUS, THIRSTY FLY. And joy enjoyed no while ;
[Last verse added by Rev. J. Plumtree.)
Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Freely welcome to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.
Make the most of life you may ;
Life is short, and wears away.
Both alike are mine and thine, To spend the day in vain ;
Hastening quick to their decline ; No weary labor shall us drive
Thine's a summer, mine no more, To go to bed again.
Though repeated to threescore. But — for we feel not what we want,
Threescorc summers, when they 're gone, Nor know not what we have —
Will appear as short as one.
Yet this difference we may sec
'Twixt the life of man and thec, —
And though allowed its joys to share,
Tries virtue here, hopes pleasure there.
False world, thou ly'st : thou canst not lend
The least delight:
They are so slight :
Thy morning pleasures make an end
To please at night:
Poor are the wants that thou supply'st,
And yet thou vaunt'st, anı yet thou vy'st
With heaven ; fond carth, thou boasts ; false The solitary helmsman sits to guide,
world, thou ly’st.
Thy babbling tongue tells golden tales
Of endless treasure ;
Thy bounty offers easy sales
of lasting pleasure ;
And swear'st to ease her ;
There's none can want where thou supply'st: The lesson emblemed in thy varying way; There's none can give where thou deny'st. . It speaks of human joys that rise so slow, Alas ! fond world, thou boasts ; false world, thou So rapidly decay.
What well-advised car regards
What carth can say ?
Thy words are gold, but thy rewards
Are painted clay :
Thy cunning can but pack the cards,
Thou canst not play:
Thy game at weakest, still thou vy'st; Alas ! how hurryingly the ebbing years
| If seen, and then rery'd, deny'st : Then hasten to old age !
Thou art not what thou scem'st; false world,
Thy tinsel bosom seems a mint
Of new-coined treasure ; A paradise, that has no stint,
No change, no measure ;
Nor wealth, nor pleasure :
Is dross and trash ?
Is but a flash ?
Thou of all earth's kings art king;
Beneath the strewed,
To the grandeur round thy throne ?
Before thee stand
The wondrous band, —
Many a million for her one ;
Back from the tomb
No step has come,'
WRITTEN BY ONE IN THE TOWER, BEING YOUNG AND
CONDEMNED TO DIE,
Look in my face ; my name is Might-have-been ;
My crop of corn is but a field of tares ;
And all my good is but vain hope of gain : Of ultimate things unuttered the frail screen. The day is (fled), and yet I saw no sun ;
And now I live, and now my life is done ! Mark me, how still I am ! But should there dart
One moment through my soul the soft surprise The spring is past, and yet it hath not sprung; Of that winged Peace which lulls the breath of | The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves are green ; sighs, –
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young; Then shalt thou see me smile, and turn apart I saw the world, and yet I was not seen : Thy visage to mine ambush at thy heart My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun; Sleepless with cold commemorative eyes. And now I live, and now my life is done !
I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade ;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb ; THE GENIUS OF DEATH.
And now I die, and now I am but made ;
The glass is full, and now my glass is run ; What is death ? 'T is to be frec,
And now I live, and now my life is done!
WRITTEN THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.
E'en such is time ; which takes on trust
Our youth, our joys, our all we have,
And pays us but with earth and dust;
Which in the dark and silent grave,
DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI.
Tell wit how much it wrangles
In tickle points of niceness ; Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness.
And when they do reply,
Straight give them both the lie.
Tell skill it is pretension,
And as they do reply,
So give them still the lie.
Tell nature of decay,
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.
But vary by esteeming;
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie. Tell faith it fled the city ;
Tell how the country erreth ; Tell, manhood shakes off pity ; Tell, virtue least preferreth.
And if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lie.
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Yet, stab at thee who will,
SIR WALTER RALEIGH.
Tell potentates they live
Acting by others' action, Not loved unless they give, Not strong but by a faction.
If potentates reply,
Tell men of high condition
That rule affairs of state,
And if they once reply,
Tell them that brave it most,
They beg for more by spending,
And if they make reply,
Tell zeal it lacks devotion,
Tell love it is but lust,
And wish them not reply,
EVERY day brings a ship,
RALPH WALDO ENERSON,
Tell age it daily wasteth,
Tell honor how it alters, Tell beauty how she blasteth, Tell favor how it falters.
And as they shall reply,
If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain, They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.
AS YOU LIKE IT."
ESSAY ON MAN.”
All the world 's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players :
They have their exits and their entrances; Though the mills of God grind slowly, And one man in his time plays many parts, Yet they grind exceeding small ; His acts being seven ages.
At first the infant, Though with patience he stands waiting, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. With exactness grinds he all.
Then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Full of wise saws and modern instances; Or who could suffer being here below?
And so he plays his part : the sixth age shists The lamb thy riot dooms to bleed to-day, Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, Had he thy reason, would he skip and play?
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side ; Pleased to the last, he crops the flowery food,
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide And licks the hand just raised to shed his blood. For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, O blindness to the future ! kindly given, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes That each may fill the circle marked by Heaven: And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, Who sees with equal eye, as God of all, That ends this strange eventful history, A hero perish, or a sparrow fall ;
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion, Atoms or systems into ruin hurled,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. Anil now a bubble burst, and now a world. Hope humbly then ; with trembling pinions
Thus on, till wisdom is pushed out of life.
Year after year it steals, till all are fled, Lo, the poor Indian ! whose untutored mind And to the mercies of a moment leaves Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind; The vast concerns of an eternal scene. His soul, proud science never taught to stray Of man's miraculous mistakes this bears Far as the solar walk, or milky way;
The palm, “That all men are about to live,"
Forever on the brink of being born.
Time the supreme !— Time is cternity; All pay themselves the compliment to think Pregnant with all eternity can give; They one day shall not drivel : and their pride Pregnant with all that makes archangels smile. On this reversion takes up ready praise : Who murders time, he crushes in the birth At least their own ; their future selves applaud : A power ethereal, only not adored. How excellent that life they ne'er will lead ! Ah ! how unjust to nature and himself, Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's veils ; Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man! That lodged in Fate's to wisdom they consign; Like children babbling nonsense in their sports, The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone : We censure nature for a span too short : 'Tis not in folly not to scorn a fool,
That span too short, we tax as tedious too; And scarce in human wisdom to do more. Torture invention, all expedients tire, All promise is poor dilatory man,
To lash the lingering moments into speed, And that through every stage. When young, And whirl us (harry riddance !) from ourselves. indeed,
Art, brainless art ! our furious charioteer In full content we sometimes nobly rest, (For nature's voice, unstifled, would recall) Unanxious for ourselves, and only wish, Drives headlong towards the precipice of death! As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise. Death, most our dread; death, thus more dreadAt thirty man suspects himself a fool ;
ful made : Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan; O, what a riddle of absurdity ! At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Leisure is pain ; takes off our chariot wheels : Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve ; How heavily we drag the load of life! In all the magnanimity of thought
Blessed leisure is our curse : like that of Cain, Resolves, and re-resolves ; then dies the same. It makes us wander; wander earth around
And why? Because he thinks himselfimmortal. To fly that tyrant, thought. As Atlas groaned All men think all men mortal but themselves ; The world beneath, we groan beneath an hour. Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate We cry for mercy to the next amusement : Strikes through their wounded hearts the sud. The next amusement mortgages our fields ; den dread;
Slight inconvenience ! prisons hardly frown, But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, From hateful time if prisons set us free. Soon close; where passed the shast no trace is Yet when Death kindly tenders us relief, found.
We call him cruel ; years to moments shrink, As from the wing no scar the sky retains, Ages to years. The telescope is turned. The parted wave no furrow from the keel, To man's false optics (from his folly false) So dies in human hearts the thought of death ; Time, in advance, behind him hides his wings, Even with the tender tears which Nature sheds And seems to creer, decrepit with his age ; O'er those we love, we drop it in their grave. Behold him when passed by; what then is
DR. EDWARD YOUNG.
But his broad pinions, swifter than the winds? DEFER not till to-morrow to be wise, And all mankind, in contradiction strong, To-morrow's sun to thee may never rise. Rueful, aghast ! cry out on his career.
Ye well arrayed ! ye lilies of our land !
Ye lilies male! who neither toil nor spin ;
(As sister-lilies might ;) if not so wise Tre bell strikes one: we take no note of time, As Solomon, more sumptuons to the sight! But from its loss. To give it, then, a tongue,
Ye delicate ; who nothing can support, Is wisc in man. As if an angel spoke,
Yourselves most insupportable ! for whom I feel the solemn sound. If heard aright,
The winter rose must blow, the sun put on It is the knell of my departed hours :
A brighter beam in Leo; silky-soft
And other worlds send odors, sauce, and song,
One moment unamused a misery A dread eternity ! how surely mine!
Not made for feeble man ! who call aloud And can eternity belong to me,
For every bawble drivelled o'er by sense ;
For rattles and conceits of every cast,