fresh spring and he who goes
     In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
     The speechless babe and the gray-headed man—­
     Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
     By those who in their turn shall follow them.

       So live, that when thy summons comes to join
     The innumerable caravan which moves
     To that mysterious realm where each shall take
     His chamber in the silent halls of death,
     Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
     Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
     By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
     Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
     About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

     THE CROWDED STREET

     Let me move slowly through the street,
       Filled with an ever-shifting train,
     Amid the sound of steps that beat
       The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

     How fast the flitting figures come! 
       The mild, the fierce, the stony face—­
     Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some
       Where secret tears have lost their trace.

     They pass to toil, to strife, to rest—­
       To halls in which the feast is spread—­
     To chambers where the funeral guest
       In silence sits beside the dead.

     And some to happy homes repair,
       Where children, pressing cheek to cheek,
     With mute caresses shall declare
       The tenderness they cannot speak.

     And some, who walk in calmness here,
       Shall shudder as they reach the door
     Where one who made their dwelling dear,
       Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

     Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame,
       And dreams of greatness in thine eye! 
     Go’st thou to build an early name,
       Or early in the task to die?

     Keen son of trade, with eager brow! 
       Who is now fluttering in thy snare? 
     Thy golden fortunes, tower they now,
       Or melt the glittering spires in air?

     Who of this crowd to-night shall tread
       The dance till daylight gleam again? 
     Who sorrow o’er the untimely dead? 
       Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

     Some, famine-struck, shall think how long
       The cold dark hours, how slow the light;
     And some who flaunt amid the throng
       Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

     Each where his tasks or pleasures call,
       They pass, and heed each other not. 
     There is Who heeds, Who holds them all
       In His large love and boundless thought.

     These struggling tides of life, that seem
       In wayward, aimless course to tend,
     Are eddies of the mighty stream
       That rolls to its appointed end.

     D. Appleton and Company, New York.