Some shuffle with a practised hand, and pack their cards with care, That they may know, when they are dealt, where all the leaders are; Thus fools are made the dupes of rogues, while rogues each other cheat,
And he is very wise indeed who never meets defeat.
When playing, some do throw the ace the counting cards to save,
Some play the deuce, and some the ten, but many play the knave;
Some play for money, some for fun, and some for worldly fame,
But not until the game's played out can they count out their game.
When hearts are trumps we play for love, and pleasure rules the hour,
No thoughts of sorrow check our joy in beauty's rosy bower;
We sing, we dance, sweet verses make, our cards at random play,
And, while our trump remains on top, our game's a holiday.
When diamonds chance to crown the pack the players stake their gold,
And heavy sums are lost and won by gamblers young and old;
Intent on winning, each his game doth watch with eager eye,
How he may see his neighbour's cards and beat him on the sly.
When clubs are trumps look out for war on ocean and on land,
For bloody horrors always come when clubs are held in hand;
Then lives are staked instead of gold, the dogs of war are freed-
In our dear country now we see that clubs have got the lead.
Last game of all is when the spade is turned by hand of Time,
He always deals the closing game in every age and clime;
No matter how much each man wins or how much each man saves,
The spades will finish up the game and dig the players' graves.
IN hope a king doth go to war;
In hope a lover lives full long;
In hope a merchant sails full far;
In hope just men do suffer wrong;
In hope the ploughman sows his seed:
Thus hope helps thousands at their need.
Then faint not, heart among the rest;
Whatever chance, hope thou the best.
BEHOLD this ruin! Twas a skull,
Once of the ethereal spirit full;
This narrow cell was life's retreat,
This space was thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot!
What dreams of pleasure long forgot!
Nor hope, nor joy, nor love, nor fear
Have left one trace of record here.
Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once dwelt the bright and busy eye;
But start not at the dismal void.
If social love that eye employed;
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,
But through the dews of kindness beamed,
That eye shall be for ever bright,
When stars and sun are sunk in night.
Within the hollow cavern hung
The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue.
If falsehood's honey it disdained,
And, when it could not praise, was chained,
If bold in virtue's cause it spoke
Yet gentle concord never broke,
That silent tongue shall plead for thee,
When time unveils eternity.
Say, did those fingers delve the mine,
Or with the envied rubies shine?
To hew the rock or wear the gem
Can little now avail to them.
But if the forge of truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought,
These hands a richer meed shall claim,
Than all that waits on wealth or fame.
Avails it, whether bare or shod,
These feet the path of duty trod;
If from the bowers of ease they fled
To seek affliction's humble shed;
If grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to virtue's cot returned,
These feet with angel's wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.
I've pleasant thoughts which memory brings, in moments free from
Of a fairy-like and laughing girl, with roses in her hair;
Her smile was like the starlight of summer's softest skies,
And worlds of joyousness there shone from out her witching eyes.
Her looks were looks of melody, her voice was like the swell
Of sudden music, gentle notes that of deep gladness tell!
She came, like spring, with pleasant sounds of sweetness and of mirth,
And her thoughts were those wild flowery thoughts that linger not on earth.
A quiet goodness beamed amid the beauty of her face,
And all she said and did was with its own instinctive grace;
She seemed as if she thought the world a good and pleasant one,
And her light spirit saw no ill in aught beneath the sun.
I've dreamed of just such creatures, but they never met my view,
'Mid the sober dull reality in their earthly form and hue,
And her smile came gently o'er me like spring's first scented airs,
And made me think life was not all a wilderness of cares.
I know not of her destiny, or where her smile now strays,
But the thought of her comes o'er me with my own lost sunny days,
With moonlight hours, and far-off friends, and many pleasant things
That have gone the way of all the earth, on Time's resistless wings.
In the east the shadows deepen, and come creeping where the sun,
In the morning, earth adorning, on his glorious march begun,
And gilded in the distant west the silver web he spun.
Now night's dark pall is thrown o'er all the sons of toil each one,
For now to wearied nature all the daily task is done.
In the eve of life the shadows of long-cherished hopes fleet by,
And leave their blight of silvery light on a fair sunny sky,
For God's best gifts are lent us here, and wait us there on high;
Here moth and rust, and dust to dust, and tears that will not dry,-
But sighs, nor fears, nor sorrow's tears ne'er reach beyond the sky.
At the eve of life while musing on the sunny hopes of yore,
And the loved forms we so cherished, that will come again no more,
Then the heart feels tired and weary, and longs for yon bright shore,
Whose nightless day drives tears away, and sorrows come no more,
For the hopes so fled, the loves so dead, this world can ne'er restore.
TO-DAY, man lives in pleasure, wealth, and pride;
To-morrow, poor, of life itself denied.
To-day, lays plans for many years to come;
To-morrow, sinks into the silent tomb.
To-day, his food is dressed in dainty forms;
To-morrow, is himself a feast for worms.
To-day, he's clad in gaudy, rich array;
To-morrow, shrouded for a bed of clay.
To-day, enjoys his halls, built to his mind;
To-morrow, in a coffin is confined.
To-day, he floats on honour's lofty wave;
To-morrow, leaves his titles for a grave.
To-day, his beauteous visage we extol;
To-morrow, loathsome in the sight of all.
To-day, he has delusive dreams of heaven;
To-morrow, cries too late to be forgiven.
To-day, he lives in hopes as light as air ;
To-morrow, dies in anguish and despair.
COUNT not the days that have idly flown,
The years that were vainly spent ;
Nor speak of the hours thou must blush to own
When thy spirit stands before the throne
To account for the talents lent.
But number the hours redeemed from sin,
The moments employed for heaven;
Oh, few and evil thy days have been,
Thy life a toilsome but worthless scene,
For a nobler purpose given.
Will the shade go back on thy dial-plate?
Will thy sun stand still on his way?
Both hasten on: and thy spirit's fate
Rests on the point of life's little date;
Then live while 'tis called to-day.
Life's waning hours, like the sibyl's page,
As they lessen, in value rise;
Oh, rouse thee and live! nor deem man's age
Stands in the length of his pilgrimage,
But in days that are truly wise.
INSCRIPTION ON A SUN-DIAL.
SAVE when the sun's resplendent ray
May gild the passing hour,
To mark the minutes on their way
I lose the ready power.
So only can that time be blest,
And called by man his own,
In which the sunbeam of the breast,
The Conscience, may have shone !
WHETHER We smile or weep,
Time wings his flight;
Days, hours, they never creep;
Life speeds like light.
Whether we laugh or groan,
Seasons change fast;
Nothing hath ever flown
Swift as the past.
Whether we chafe or chide,
On is Time's pace;
Never his noiseless steps
Doth he retrace.
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