DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST. 221 FAMILIAR LOVE. - Milnes. WE read together, reading the same book, In its half slumbering harmony, More like a bee, that in the noon rejoices, In which our powers of thought stood separate, DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.- Shirley. THE glories of our birth and state There is no armor against fate; Death lays his icy hand on kings. 222 THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor, crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow; Then boast no more your mighty deeds; See where the victor victim bleeds; To the cold tomb, Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. - Bloomfield. COME, friend, I'll turn thee up again; In frame of wood, On chest or window by my side; And when my husband died. 223 ཤ ། THE WIDOW TO HER HOUR-GLASS. I've often watched thy streaming sand, Still sliding down, Again heaped up, then down again; While thus I spin and sometimes sing, Still shalt thou flow, And jog along thy destined way; Steady as truth, on either end Thy lengthened day Shall gild once more my native plain; I'll turn thee up again. THE MEN OF OLD. HYMN TO DIANA.-Jonson, born in 1574. QUEENE, and huntresse, chaste, and faire, Earth, let not thy impious shade Lay thy bow of pearle apart, And thy cristall-shining quiver; Space to breathe, how short soever: THE MEN OF OLD. - Milnes. I KNOW not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine perforce A ghost of Time to raise, As if they could check the course THE MEN OF OLD. 225 Still it is true, and over true, This book of life, self-wise and new, With rights, though not too closely scanned, Enjoyed as far as known, With will by no reverse unmanned,· With pulse of even tone, They from to-day and from to-night Expected nothing more Than yesterday and yesternight Had proffered them before. To them was life a simple art Of duties to be done, A game where each man took his part, A battle whose great scheme and scope They little cared to know, Content, as men-at-arms, to cope Each with his fronting foe. Man now his virtue's diadem Puts on and proudly wears; Great thoughts, great feelings, came to them, Like instincts, unawares: Blending their souls' sublimest needs With tasks of every day, They went about their gravest deeds As noble boys at play. |