Too Late. "Ah! si la jeunesse savait,-si la vieillesse pouvait!" THERE sat an old man on a rock, And unceasing bewailed him of Fate,— That it could drown the old man's for long, 'When we want, we have for our pains The promise that if we but wait Till the want has burned out of our brains, Every means shall be present to state; While we send for the napkin the soup gets cold, "When strawberries seemed like red heavens,— When my brain was at sixes and sevens, When the goodies all came in a stream! in a stream! "I've a splendid blood horse, and—a liver I can buy boundless credits on Paris and Rome, When no home but an attic he 'd got,- he'd got! "How I longed, in that lonest of garrets, Where the tiles baked my brains all July, A rosebush,- With a woman's chair empty close by, close by! "Ah! now, though I sit on a rock, I have shared one seat with the great; I have sat-knowing naught of the clock— But the lips that kissed, and the arms that caressed, What the End shall be. WHEN another life is added To the heaving, turbid mass; Stains creation's tarnished glass; Springs, that ne'er can die again; Prophesies of future years,— It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When across the infant features Trembles the faint dawn of mind, And the heart looks from the windows Of the eyes that were so blind; With a boundless promise fraught; It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When the boy, upon the threshold That enlocks him ere he roam; Hid behind the sunny sail: It is well we cannot see When the youth beside the maiden Like enchanted garden-ground; He may falter--so do many; She may suffer-so must all: Both may yet, world-disappointed, It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. When the altar of religion Greets the expectant bridal pair, And the vow that lasts till dying Vibrates on the sacred air; When man's lavish protestations Doubts of after-change defy, Comforting the frailer spirit Bound his servitor for aye; When beneath love's silver moonbeams Shows the danger of the deep,— It is well we cannot see What the end shall be. Whatsoever is beginning, That is wrought by human skill; Every daring emanation Of the mind's ambitious will; Every first impulse of passion, Gush of love or twinge of hate; Every launch upon the waters Wide-horizoned by our fate; Every venture in the chances Of life's sad, oft desperate game, It is well we cannot see ANONYMOUS. The Two Worlds. Two worlds there are. To one our eyes we strain, Bright haze of morning veils its glimmering shore. Intoxicating air Glad were our hearts in that sweet realm of The lover there drank her delicious breath The irreclaimable dead: We see them-visions strange-amid the The merrysome maiden used to sing The brown, brown hair that once was wont to cling To temples long clay-cold: to the very core They strike our weary hearts, As some vexed memory starts From that long faded land-the realm of It is perpetual summer there. But here And harebells quivering on the meadow-floor. For tenderer hearts and truer Upon the frontier of this shadowy land We pilgrims of eternal sorrow stand: What realm lies forward, with its happier store |