TOO LATE.
And as each day, that ne'er returns,
But joins the past,
Comes and goes by, the rich man toils
Hard at his task,—
No time for thought or anything
But just his wealth.
Can he be dreaming life's for aye?
Now fails his health,
And death comes in and beckons him away.
Good that was in his hands to do,
He left undone,
Forgetting, in his race for wealth,
Life's setting sun!
His thoughts all lay in how to make
One dollar seven:
And then, too late, he found, for gold
There's no demand in heaven.
776
GOOD-BY.
"Farewell! farewell!" is often heard
From the lips of those who part:
'Tis a whispered tone,—'tis a gentle word,
But it springs not from the heart.
It may serve for the lover's closing lay,
To be sung 'neath a summer sky;
But give to me the lips that say
The honest words, "Good-by!"
"Adieu! adieu!" may greet the ear,
In the guise of courtly speech:
But when we leave the kind and dear,
'Tis not what the soul would teach.
Whene'er we grasp the hands of those
We would have forever nigh,
The flame of friendship bursts and glows
In the warm, frank words, "Good-by."
The mother, sending forth her child
To meet with cares and strife,
Breathes through her tears, her doubts, and fears
For the loved one's future life.
No cold "adieu," no "farewell," lives
Within her choking sigh,
But the deepest sob of anguish gives,
"God bless, thee, boy! 'Good-by!'"
—Anonymous.