Death grows beside existence, and with time
    Is comrade of its changes; cycles roll
    Their heavy circles through the human soul,
  And pour their dirges into mournful rhyme;
      A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

  He gropes in shadows for a happy beam
    That shall delight his bosom; into mist
    Dissolves the substance that ambition kissed,
  While greatness grows the garland of a dream;
      A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

  Endeavor struggles to an open grave;
    The past is lost in monumental dust,
    Where age on age in angry ire has thrust
  The wise, the strong, the mighty, and the brave;
      A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

  The years are shades that totter from their tombs,
    The ages, ghosts that live in catacombs
    And lure the Present to their awful homes,
  Where ancient races wander in the glooms;
    A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

  Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms,
    And presses them like infants to her breast,
    Repeats to them her lullabies of rest,
  And guards them from all sorrows and alarms;
    A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

  Then hasten, world, and let my battle cease;
    I care not where I stay nor when I go;
    For action gives unhappiness and woe,
  But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace;
    A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

IF LOVE WERE KING.

If Love were king,
That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure,
But for its children spends its fondest treasure,
Sad hearts would sing,
And all the hosts of misery and wrong
Forget their anguish in the happy song
That joy would bring.

If Love were king,
Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features,
And virtue would to all the world’s sad creatures
Her treasures fling;
Till drooping souls would rise above their fate,
And find sweet flowers for all the desolate
And sorrowing.

If Love were king,
Before the scepter of his might should vanish
Toil’s curse and care, and happiness should banish
Want’s awful sting;
While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw
Delightful raptures over all below,
And gladness bring.

If Love were king,
The nations would eternal sunshine borrow,
And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow
And every thing
That binds the race in groans and agony;
Life’s changing seasons would forever be
Unvaried spring.

If Love were king! 
O, broken feet that wander worn and weary
Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary,
With rapture cling
Your anguished arms about him; drink delight
Upon his perfect bosom soft and white
And comforting!

“SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER.”

Our souls are the deserts of sorrow,
Our hearts are the ashes of hope,
And madly from gladness we borrow
The brightness where sadness may grope;
My raptures in wretchedness vanish,
My bosom is weeping with wrongs;
Then sing me the old songs, mother,
Then sing me the dear old songs.