Is Life a poor coil some would gladly be doffing?
He is riding post-haste who their wrongs will adjust;
For at most 'tis a footstep from cradle to coffin—
From a spoonful of pap to a mouthful of dust.
Then smile as your future is smiling, my Jenny;
I see you, except for those infantine woes,
Little changed since you were but a small pickaninny—
Your cheeks were so dimpled, so rosy your toes!
Ay, here is your Cradle, much, much to my liking,
Though nineteen or twenty long winters have sped.
Hark! As I'm talking there's six o'clock striking,—
It is time Jenny's baby should be in its bed.
[XC]. RUGBY CHAPEL.
November, 1857.
Matthew Arnold.—1822-
Coldly, sadly descends
The autumn-evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of wither'd leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent;—hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the school-room windows—but cold,
Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel-walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.
There thou dost lie, in the gloom
Of the autumn evening. But ah!
That word, gloom, to my mind
Brings thee back in the light
Of thy radiant vigor again:
In the gloom of November we pass'd
Days not dark at thy side;
Seasons impair'd not the ray
Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear.
Such thou wast! and I stand
In the autumn evening, and think
Of bygone autumns with thee.