II. Old Time will fling his clouds ere long The voice whose every word is song, Your quiet slumbers, hopes and fears To-morrow, you'll be shedding tears,- III. Oh, yes; if any truth is found If mirth, youth's playmate, feels fatigue At least, he'll run with you a league,— IV. Perhaps your eyes may grow more bright As childhood's hues depart; You may be lovelier to the sight, And dearer to the heart; This earth still green and gay; V. O'er me have many winters crept, With less of grief than joy; But I have learned, and toiled, and wept.-I am no more a boy! I've never had the gout, 'tis true, But now I cannot laugh like you; VI. I used to have as glad a face, I once could run as blithe a race EXERCISE XLVII. ARTHUR CLEVELAND COXE is an Episcopal clergyman, and was born at Mendham, in New Jersey, in the year 1818. He is a lyric poet of remarkable merit, and writes chiefly on religious themes. The following is one of his best productions. The first dear thing that I ever loved, Was a mother's gentle eye, That smiled, as I woke on the dreamy couch That cradled my infancy. I never forget the joyous thrill That smile in my spirit stirred, Nor how it could charm me against my will, Till I laughed like a joyous bird. II. And the next fair thing that ever I loved, With odors, and hues, and loveliness, I never can find such hues again, 'Tis I that have lost the bloom. III. And the next dear thing that ever I loved, Was a fawn-like little maid, Half pleased, half awed by the frolic boy That tortured her doll, and played: I never can see the gossamer Which rude, rough zephyrs tease, IV. And the next good thing that ever I loved, Was a bow-kite in the sky; And a little boat on the brooklet's surf, And a dog for my company; And a jingling hoop, with many a bound То my measured strike and true; And a rocket sent up to the firmament, When Even was out so blue. V. And the next fair thing I was fond to love, Was a field of wavy grain, Where the reapers mowed; or a ship in sail On the billowy, billowy main: And the next was a fiery prancing horse And the next was a beautiful sailing-boat VI. And the next dear thing I was fond to love, 'Twas a voice, and a hand, and gentle eye That dazzled me with its spell : And the loveliest things I had loved before, On the canvas bright where I pictured her, VII. And the next good thing I was fain to love, Musing o'er all these lovely things, Then out I walked in the forest free, Where wantoned the autumn wind, VIII. And a spirit was on me that next I loved, And maketh me murmur these sing-song words, Albeit against my will. And I walked the woods till the winter came, And then did I love the snow; And I heard the gales, through the wild wood aisles, Like the LORD's own organ blow. IX. And the bush I had loved in my greenwood walk, I saw it afar away, Surpliced with snows, like the bending priest That kneels in the church to pray: And I thought of the vaulted fane, and high, X. And again to the vaulted church I went, And I felt in my spirit so drear and strange To think of the race I ran, That I loved the lone thing that knew no change, In the soul of the boy and man. XI. And the tears I wept in the wilderness, That lifted my soul to joys above And pleasures that do not die. XII. And then, said I, one thing there is And the beauty fair of the LORD of HOSTS, |