Four ages of man in his lifetime have died, And the place they once held by the fifth is supplied.

Saturnus first governed, with fatherly smile, Each day then resembled the last; Then flourished the shepherds, a race without guile Their bliss by no care was o'ercast, They loved,--and no other employment they had, And earth gave her treasures with willingness glad.

Then labor came next, and the conflict began With monsters and beasts famed in song; And heroes upstarted, as rulers of man, And the weak sought the aid of the strong.

And strife o'er the field of Scamander now reigned, But beauty the G.o.d of the world still remained.

At length from the conflict bright victory sprang, And gentleness blossomed from might; In heavenly chorus the Muses then sang, And figures divine saw the light;-- The age that acknowledged sweet phantasy's sway Can never return, it has fleeted away.

The G.o.ds from their seats in the heavens were hurled, And their pillars of glory o'erthrown; And the Son of the Virgin appeared in the world For the sins of mankind to atone.

The fugitive l.u.s.ts of the sense were suppressed, And man now first grappled with thought in his breast.

Each vain and voluptuous charm vanished now, Wherein the young world took delight; The monk and the nun made of penance a vow, And the tourney was sought by the knight.

Though the aspect of life was now dreary and wild, Yet love remained ever both lovely and mild.

An altar of holiness, free from all stain, The Muses in silence upreared; And all that was n.o.ble and worthy, again In woman's chaste bosom appeared; The bright flame of song was soon kindled anew By the minstrel's soft lays, and his love pure and true.

And so, in a gentle and ne'er-changing band, Let woman and minstrel unite; They weave and they fashion, with hand joined to hand, The girdle of beauty and right.

When love blends with music, in unison sweet, The l.u.s.tre of life's youthful days ne'er can fleet.

THE MAIDEN'S LAMENT.

The clouds fast gather, The forest-oaks roar-- A maiden is sitting Beside the green sh.o.r.e,-- The billows are breaking with might, with might, And she sighs aloud in the darkling night, Her eyelid heavy with weeping.

"My heart's dead within me, The world is a void; To the wish it gives nothing, Each hope is destroyed.

I have tasted the fulness of bliss below I have lived, I have loved,--Thy child, oh take now, Thou Holy One, into Thy keeping!"

"In vain is thy sorrow, In vain thy tears fall, For the dead from their slumbers They ne'er can recall; Yet if aught can pour comfort and balm in thy heart, Now that love its sweet pleasures no more can impart, Speak thy wish, and thou granted shalt find it!"

"Though in vain is my sorrow, Though in vain my tears fall,-- Though the dead from their slumbers They ne'er can recall, Yet no balm is so sweet to the desolate heart, When love its soft pleasures no more can impart, As the torments that love leaves behind it!"

TO MY FRIENDS.

Yes, my friends!--that happier times have been Than the present, none can contravene; That a race once lived of n.o.bler worth; And if ancient chronicles were dumb, Countless stones in witness forth would come From the deepest entrails of the earth.

But this highly-favored race has gone, Gone forever to the realms of night.

We, we live! The moments are our own, And the living judge the right.

Brighter zones, my friends, no doubt excel This, the land wherein we're doomed to dwell, As the hardy travellers proclaim; But if Nature has denied us much, Art is yet responsive to our touch, And our hearts can kindle at her flame.

If the laurel will not flourish here-- If the myrtle is cold winter's prey, Yet the vine, to crown us, year by year, Still puts forth its foliage gay.

Of a busier life 'tis well to speak, Where four worlds their wealth to barter seek, On the world's great market, Thames' broad stream; Ships in thousands go there and depart-- There are seen the costliest works of art, And the earth-G.o.d, Mammon, reigns supreme But the sun his image only graves On the silent streamlet's level plain, Not upon the torrent's muddy waves, Swollen by the heavy rain.

Far more blessed than we, in northern states Dwells the beggar at the angel-gates, For he sees the peerless city--Rome!

Beauty's glorious charms around him lie, And, a second heaven, up toward the sky Mounts St. Peter's proud and wondrous dome.

But, with all the charms that splendor grants, Rome is but the tomb of ages past; Life but smiles upon the blooming plants That the seasons round her cast.

Greater actions elsewhere may be rife Than with us, in our contracted life-- But beneath the sun there's naught that's new; Yet we see the great of every age Pa.s.s before us on the world's wide stage Thoughtfully and calmly in review All. in life repeats itself forever, Young for ay is phantasy alone; What has happened nowhere,--happened never,-- That has never older grown!

PUNCH SONG.

Four elements, joined in Harmonious strife, Shadow the world forth, And typify life.

Into the goblet The lemon's juice pour; Acid is ever Life's innermost core.

Now, with the sugar's All-softening juice, The strength of the acid So burning reduce.

The bright sparkling water Now pour in the bowl; Water all-gently Encircles the whole.

Let drops of the spirit To join them now flow; Life to the living Naught else can bestow.

Drain it off quickly Before it exhales; Save when 'tis glowing, The draught naught avails.

NADOWESSIAN DEATH-LAMENT.

See, he sitteth on his mat Sitteth there upright, With the grace with which he sat While he saw the light.

Where is now the st.u.r.dy gripe,-- Where the breath sedate, That so lately whiffed the pipe Toward the Spirit great?

Where the bright and falcon eye, That the reindeer's tread On the waving gra.s.s could spy, Thick with dewdrops spread?

Where the limbs that used to dart Swifter through the snow Than the twenty-membered hart, Than the mountain roe?

Where the arm that st.u.r.dily Bent the deadly bow?

See, its life hath fleeted by,-- See, it hangeth low!

Happy he!--He now has gone Where no snow is found: Where with maize the fields are sown, Self-sprung from the ground;

Where with birds each bush is filled, Where with game the wood; Where the fish, with joy unstilled, Wanton in the flood.

With the spirits blest he feeds,-- Leaves us here in gloom; We can only praise his deeds, And his corpse entomb.

Farewell-gifts, then, hither bring, Sound the death-note sad!

Bury with him everything That can make him glad!

'Neath his head the hatchet hide That he boldly swung; And the bear's fat haunch beside, For the road is long;

And the knife, well sharpened, That, with slashes three, Scalp and skin from foeman's head Tore off skilfully.