BOYHOOD AND MANHOOD.

Oh, for the merry, merry month of June,

When I was a little lad!

When the small birds’ throats were all in tune,

And the very fields were glad.

And the flowers that alas! were to fade too soon,

In their holiday clothes were clad.

Oh, I remember—remember well,

The scent of the morning grass,

Nor was there a sight, sweet sound, or sweet smell,

That can e’er from my memory pass:

For they lie on my heart with the power of a spell,

Like the first love I felt for a lass.

Ay, there is the river in which I swam,

The field where I used to play—

The fosse where I built the bridge and the dam,

And the oak in whose shade I lay:

But, oh, how changed a thing I am!

And how unchanged are they!

Time was—ah! that was the happy time!—

When I longed a man to be;

When a shaven chin was a thing sublime—

And a fine thing to be free:

And methought I had nought to do but climb

To the height of felicity.

But, alas! my beard is waxen grey

Since I mingled among men;

And I’m not much wiser, nor half so gay,

Nor so good as I was then;—

And I’d give much more than I care to say

To be a boy again.

Old Age.—Remember, old man, that you are now in the waning, and the date of your pilgrimage well nigh expired; and now that it behoveth you to look towards your final accounting, your force languisheth, your senses impair, your body droops, and on every side the ruinous cottage of your faint and feeble flesh threateneth the fall; and having so many harbingers of death to premonish you of your end, how can you but prepare for so dreadful a stranger? The young man may die quickly, but the old man cannot live long; the young man’s life by casualty may be abridged, but the old man’s term by no physic can be long adjourned; and therefore, if green years should sometimes think of the grave and the judgment, the thoughts of old age should continually dwell on the same.—Remains of Sir Walter Raleigh.