Oh! if old age were cancelled from our lot,
Full soon would man deplore the unhallowed blot;
Life's busy day would want its tranquil even,
And man must lose his stepping-stone to heaven.
Thus, every age by God to man assigned,
Declares His power, how good, how wise, how kind!
And thus in manhood, youth, and age, we trace
A sweet proportion, and harmonious grace.
The River and the Tide.
On the bank of a river was seated one day
An old man, and close by his side,
Was a child who had paused from his laughing and play
To gaze at the stream, as it hurried away
To the sea, with the ebb of the tide.
"What see you, my child, in the stream, as it flows
To the ocean, so dark and deep?
Are you watching how swift, yet how silent it goes?
Thus hurry our lives, till they sink in repose,
And are lost in a measureless sleep.
"Now listen, my boy! You are young, I am old,
And yet like two rivers are we;
Though the flood-tide of youth from Time's ocean is rolled,
Yet it ebbs all too soon, and its waters grow cold
As it creeps back again to the sea."
"But the river returns!" cried the boy, while his eyes
Gleamed bright as the water below.
"Ah! yes," said the old man; "but time, as it flies,
Turns the tide of our life, and it never can rise."
"But first," said the boy, "it must flow."
Thus, watching its course from the bank of the stream,
They mused, as they sat side by side;
Each read different tales in the river's bright gleam—
One borne with the flow of a glorious dream,
And one going out with the tide.
