Were far below their grand all-seeing state
Of unimpassioned wisdom, clear and cool.
Yet in full tragic curves those lips betray
Unsatiated sadness: dost foresee,
Perchance, an aged couple by the fire,
Love dead, and beauty turned to common clay?
Nay, we have song! Age brings no fears to me:
Time cannot stem the magic of the lyre!
ARTHUR MILLIKEN.