And one of these days perhaps will see A MOTHER'S LOVE. THE cold winds swept the mountain's height, A mother wander'd with her child:- But colder still the winds did blow, gone; "O God," she cried, in accents wild, She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, YOUTH AND AGE. Then round her child she wrapped the vest, At dawn a traveller passed by, And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; The frost of death was in her eye, Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale; He moved the robe from off the child, The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled. 61 SEBA SMITH. YOUTH AND AGE; OR, SATURDAY AFTERNOON. I LOVE to look on a scene like this And persuade myself that I am not old, And my locks are not yet grey; For it stirs the blood in an old man's heart, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. G I have walk'd the world for fourscore And they say that I am old, years; That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, I'm old, and "I "bide my time :" But my heart will leap at a scene like this, Play on, play on; I am with you there, I am willing to die when my time shall come, For the world at best is a weary place, And my pulse is getting low; But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail In treading its gloomy way; And it wiles my heart from its dreariness To see the young so gay. N. P. WILLIS. |