THE MEN OF OLD.

"I know not that the men of old
Were better than men now,

Of heart more kind, of hand more bold,
Of more ingenuous brow:

I heed not those who pine for force
A ghost of Time to raise,

As if they thus could check the course
Of these appointed days.

"Still is it true, and over true,

That I delight to close

This book of life self-wise and new,

And let my thoughts repose
On all that humble happiness,
The world has since foregone,—
The daylight of contentedness
That on those faces shone !

"With rights, tho' 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 race where all must run;

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 meeds

With tasks of every day,

They went about their gravest deeds,

As noble boys at play.

"And what if nature's fearful wound
They did not probe and bare,

For that their spirits never swooned
To watch the misery there,-

For that their love but flowed more fast,
Their charities more free,

Not conscious what mere drops they cast
Into the evil sea.

"A man's best things are nearest him,
Lie close about his feet,

It is the distant and the dim
That we are sick to greet:

For flowers that grow our hands beneath
We struggle and aspire,-

Our hearts must die, except they breathe
The air of fresh desire.

"But, brothers, who up reason's hill
Advance with hopeful cheer,-

O! loiter not, those heights are chill,
As chill as they are clear;

And still restrain your haughty gaze,
The loftier that ye go,

Remembering distance leaves a haze
On all that lies below."

Think not that we should have wearied of our own company in this cave, had we been without a material book. In our mind is a library of other substance-and we are always in a state of clairvoyance. We have been reading Milnes now with the palm of our hand-but that is merely because the volume happens to be on the table -we see through Shakspeare, and Milton, and Spenser, and Wordsworth, in the niche yonder-nor need they be there for with shut eyes we can read in to ourselves the Paradise Lost, and the Excursion, and the Fairy Queen, and the Tempest, in editions out of print, and that we never saw what think you of that, Dupotet! Doctors Elliotson and Lardner, pray hold your peace.

We tie our black silk neckerchief round our eyes-till we are as blind as a mole, a bat, or as an impostor-turn you up "Poems of many Years"-correct us if we err in a single syllable-and hearken to Christopher in his Cave

-spiritually not animally magnetized-reading the “ Lay of the Humble"—with his thumb !

THE LAY OF THE HUMBLE.

"I have no comeliness of frame,
No pleasant range of feature;
I'm feeble, as when first I came
To earth, a weeping creature;
My voice is low when'er I speak,
And singing faint my song;

But though thus cast among the weak,
I envy not the strong.

"The trivial part in life I play
Can have so light a bearing

On other men, who, night or day,
For me are never caring;

That, though I find not much to bless,
Nor food for exaltation,

I know that I am tempted less,—
And that is consolation.

"The beautiful! the noble blood!
I shrink as they pass by,-
Such power for evil or for good
Is flashing from each eye;

They are indeed the stewards of heaven,
High-headed and strong-handed:

From those, to whom so much is given,

How much may be demanded!

""Tis true, I am hard buffeted,
Though few can be my foes,

Harsh words fall heavy on my head,
And unresisted blows;

"And most of all, I never felt
The agonizing sense

Of seeing love from passion melt
Into indifference;

The fearful shame, that day by day
Burns ownward, still to burn,

T have thrown your precious heart away,
And met this black return.

"I almost fancy that the more
I am cast out from men,

Nature has made me of her store
A worthier denizen;

As if it pleased her to caress

A plant grown up so wild,
As if the being parentless

Made me the more her child.

"Athwart my face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,

I fall unto the dewy grass,
And cool my fevered cheek;
And hear a music strangely made,
That you have never heard,

A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird.

"My dreams are dreams of pleasantness,—

But yet I always run,

As to a father's morning kiss,

When rises the round sun;

I see the flowers on stalk and stem,

Light shrubs, and poplars tall,

Enjoy the breeze,-I rock with them,

We' are merry brothers all.

"I do remember well, when first

I saw the great blue sea,

It was no stranger-face, that burst
In terror upon me;

My heart began, from the first glance,
His solemn pulse to follow,

I danced with every billow's dance,
And shouted to their hollo.

"The lamb, that at its mother's side Reclines, a tremulous thing,

The robin in cold winter-tide,
The linnet in the spring,
All seem to be of kin to me,
And love my slender hand,-

For we are bound, by God's decree,
In one defensive band.

“And children, who the worldly mind

And ways have not put on,

Are ever glad in me to find

A blithe companion:

And when for play they leave their homes, Left to their own sweet glee,

They hear my step, and cry, 'He comes, Our little friend,-'tis he.'

"Have you been out some starry night,
And found it joy to bend

Your eyes to one particular light,
Till it became a friend?

And then, so loved that glist'ning spot,

That, whether it were far

Or more or less, it mattered not,—

It still was your own star.

66

Thus, and thus only, can you know,
How I, even scorned I,

Can live in love, tho' set so low,
And my ladie-love so high;

Thus learn, that on this varied ball,

Whate'er can breathe and move,

The meanest, lornest, thing of all—

Still owns its right to love.

"With no fair round of household cares

Will my lone hearth be blest,

Nor can the snow of my old hairs

Fall on a loving breast;

No darling pledge of spousal faith

Shall I be found possessing,

To whom a blessing with my breath

Would be a double blessing:

"But yet my love with sweets is rife,
With happiness it teems,
It beautifies my waking life
And waits upon my dreams;