Days of my age! ye will shortly be past;
Pains of my age! yet awhile ye can last;
Joys of my age! in true wisdom delight;
Eyes of my age! be religion your light;
Thoughts of my age! dread ye not the cold sod;
Hopes of my age! be ye fixed on your God!
CURE FOR TROUBLE.
BY S. OSBORNE.
Ben Brisk a philosopher was,
In the genuine sense of the word;
And he held that repining, whatever the cause,
Was unmanly, and weak, and absurd.
Tom Tipple, when trouble intruded,
And his fortune and credit were sunk,
By a too common error deluded,
Drown'd trouble, and made himself drunk.
But Ben had a way of his own,
When grievances made him uneasy;
He bade the blue devils begone!
Brav'd trouble, and made himself—Busy.
When sorrow imbitters our days,
And poisons each source of enjoyment,
The surest specific, he says,
For trouble and grief, is—Employment.