GATHER RIPE FRUIT, OH DEATH!
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! exclaims the gifted,
Full of fresh blossoms for the ripening hour;
Adown whose sky the clouds afar have drifted—
Whose golden hopes are gilding bud and flower;
Who, through the vista long, of years advancing,
Sees fame and honors round his pathway spread,
And views green laurels in the distance glancing,
All wreathed in beauty for his waiting head.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! the young bride crieth,
Whilst blushing joys her trembling bosom thrill,
And each enchanted hour so noiseless flieth,
That no distracting fears her bright hopes fill.
The future, all in rainbow-tints is glowing,
Painted with hues from Love’s own gorgeous dyes;
And life seems but a river, softly flowing
’Mid fragrant banks, ’neath bland and sunny skies.
Gather ripe fruit, oh death! is ever ringing
From anxious lips, with deep and earnest tone;
Some joy, some hope, is ever fondly springing,
Which clinging fancy deemeth theirs alone.
All, youth and age alike, the reaper spurneth,
The young in triumph point to those before;
And age, from the grim spectre trembling turneth,
And bids him glean from fields all ripened o’er!
THE LUCKY PENNY.
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BY MRS. S. C. HALL.
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