THE SLIDING BOY.

He shouts, he slides, my rosy boy,
A moment, then comes rattling down;
Youth's type is here, a slippery joy,
A sudden fall, a bleeding crown.
He rises, brushing off the tears
In silence as he glides again;
And typifies through all our years
The soberer course which follows pain.

YOUTH.

That thoughtless child of sport and truth,
I cannot with reproaches stone,
O loving, laughing, trusting youth,
For ever, ever gone!
Sin taints, alas! the old and young,
And thou hast duly borne the rod;
And often for a venial wrong,
Thou sweetest gift of God.
I love to muse upon the boy,
And his sublime aspirings trace,
When hand in hand with Hope and Joy
He challenged Fate to race.
Still in my heart I fain would bear
Some flowers of his beyond the tomb,
Perhaps the crystal waters there
May renovate their bloom.