| THE HOUR-GLASS.
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Sparkling, dancing downwards,
Merrily drop the sands.
While the golden hours so gaily pass,
Amid rose, and lily, and soft green grass;
Wherefore so eager to turn the glass.
Oh dimpled baby-hands?
Glittering, flashing downwards,
In the glow of the April sun.
Ah, sweet white fingers, and sky-blue eyes,
And cheeks as rosy as western skies;
'Tis pity in Youth's first Paradise,
That the sands so swiftly run!
Stealing forever downwards.
Grey tinging their virgin gold.
Pulses still quiver, and hearts still beat,
But the road grows hard for the tired feet;
Surely the sky had more warmth and heat,
And the sands showed brighter of old!
Dropping drearily downwards.
The evening is well-nigh o'er.
The brightest and best the river have crossed.
The bolt is shot, and the venture lost;
The barque on the last long wave is tossed,
The glass needs to turn no more.
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| All the Year Round.
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