124 GIVE NOT THY TIME TO TEARS. Though fate our destinies sever; Trusting in Providence ever, There is a star yet above us, Beaming beyond the star's rays! Though for a time we may sever, Clasp this deep truth to thy breast,— Trusting in Providence ever Come what there may-it is best! Give not thy Time to Cears. BY C. W. THOMPSON. GIVE not thy time to tears; Why should the being of a moment weep Yet but a few short years, ? And in the silent grave thy grief shall sleep. GIVE NOT THY TIME TO TEARS. 125 Life is a barren shore; But soon the friendly bark of Death shall come, And waft thy spirit o'er To the bright verge of thy eternal home. Yet but a few short years, A few short years perhaps with clouds o'ercast, And all thy griefs and fears Will be to thee as creatures of the past. Give not thy time to tears; Why should the being of a moment weep? Yet but a few short years, And in the silent grave thy woes shall sleep. Youth is soon past and gone, And manhood's fleeting days are quickly told; And even when age comes on, Even latest age comes early to the old. Many in childhood die, Many in youth the world of shadows view, Many in manhood fly, But those who live till wintry age-how few. Oh, then, serenely wait; The days of sorrow cannot last thee long 126 TRY AGAIN. And soon thy present state Will be but the remembrance of a song. Give not thy time to tears; Why should the being of a moment weep? Yet but a few short years, And in deep silence thou shalt sweetly sleep. Try Again. 'Tis a lesson you should heed, If at first you don't succeed, Try-try again; Then your courage should appear, Once or twice though you should fail, If you would at last prevail, Try—try again; THE HOUR OF DEATH. 127 If we strive, 'tis no disgrace, If you find Try-try again. your task is hard, Time will bring you your reward, Try-try again; All that other folks can do, Why with patience should not you? Che Hour of Death. BY F. HEMANS. LEAVES have their time to fall, And flowers to wither at the north wind's breath, And stars to set; but all, Thou hast all seasons for thy own, O Death! 128 THE HOUR OF DEATH. Day is for mortal care, Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth, Night for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for thee, thou mightiest of the earth! The banquet hath its hour, Its feverish hour of mirth, and song, and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears; but all are thine! Youth and the opening rose May look like things too glorious for decay, We know when moons shall wane, When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain; But who shall teach us when to look for thee? Is it when spring's first gale Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie? Thou art where billows foam; Thou art where music melts upon the air; |