Then, when thy golden hue of morn
Gives place to sober grey; And years which never-ending seem
Have fled like one short day.
Relying on that Mighty One
Who raised the starry frame; Who through life's changes, toils and tears,
Abideth still the same.
Thy feet shall out the swelling flood,
Step safe upon the strand; And mayhap then, a mother's love
Again shall clasp thy hand, And lead thee, 'yond thy shining star,
Into the deathless land.
RHYMES OF ANCIENT ROME.
