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THE ELOCUTIONIST'S ANNUAL.

NUMBER 6.

RELENTLESS TIME.

TRANSLATION FROM THE SPANISH, ABRIDGED.

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LET the soul her slumbers break,

Let thought be quickened and awake:
Awake to see

How soon this life is past and gone,
And death comes softly stealing on,
How silently!

Swiftly our pleasures glide away,
Our hearts recall the distant day
With many sighs;

The moments that are speeding fast
We heed not, but the past-the past
More highly prize.

Our lives are rivers, gliding free
To that unfathomed, boundless sea,
The silent grave!

Thither all earthly pomp and boast
Roll, to be swallowed up and lost
In one dark wave.

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Thither the mighty torrents stray,
Thither the brook pursues its way,
And tinkling rill.

There all are equal,-side by side
The poor man and the son of pride
Lie calm and still.

Our cradle is the starting-place,
Life is the running of the race,
We reach the goal

When, in the mansions of the blest,
Death leaves to its eternal rest
A weary soul.

Did we but use it as we ought,

This world would school each wandering thought
To its high state.

Faith wings the soul beyond the sky,
Up to that better world on high,
For which we wait.

Behold of what delusive worth
The bubbles we pursue on earth,
The shapes we chase,

Amid a world of treachery!

They vanish ere death shuts the eye,
And leave no trace.

The cunning skill, the curious arts,
The glorious strength that youth imparts
In life's first stage;

These shall become a heavy weight,

When time swings wide his outward gate
To weary age.

The noble blood of Gothic name,
Heroes emblazoned high to fame,
In long array;

How, in the onward course of time,"
The land-marks of the race sublime
Were swept away!

Wealth and the high estate of pride,
With what untimely speed they glide,
How soon depart!

Bid not the shadowy phantoms stay,
The vassals of a mistress they,
Of fickle heart.

Earthly desires and sensual lust
Are passions springing from the dust-
They fade and die;

But, in the life beyond the tomb,
They seal the immortal spirit's doom
Eternally!

The pleasures and delights, which mask
In treacherous smiles life's serious task,
What are they all,

But the fleet coursers of the chase,
And death an ambush in the race,
Wherein we fall?

No foe, no dangerous pass we heed,
Brook no delay, but onward speed
With loosened rein;

And when the fatal snare is near,
We strive to check our mad career,
But strive in vain.

Could we new charms to age impart,
And fashion with a cunning art
The human face,

As we can clothe the soul with light,
And make the glorious spirit bright
With heavenly grace,

How busily each passing hour
Should we exert that magic power,
What ardor show,

To deck the sensual slave of sin,
Yet leave the free-born soul within
In weeds of woe!

Monarchs, the powerful and the strong, Famous in history and in song

Of olden time,

Saw, by the stern decrees of fate,
Their kingdoms lost, and desolate
Their race sublime.

Who is the champion? who the strong?
Pontiff and priest, and sceptered throng?
On these shall fall

As heavily the hand of Death,
As when it stays the shepherd's breath
Beside his stall!

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O World! so few the years we live! Would that the life which thou dost give Were life indeed!

Alas! thy sorrows fall so fast,

Our happiest hour is when at last

The soul is freed.

Our pilgrimage begins in tears,
And ends in bitter doubts and fears,
Or dark despair;

Midway so many toils appear,
That he who lingers longest here
Knows most of care.

Our goods are bought with many a groan,
By the hot sweat of toil alone,
And weary hearts;

Fleet-footed is the approach of woe,
But with a lingering step, and slow,
Its form departs.

A life of honor and of worth
Has no eternity on earth-

'Tis but a name;

And yet its glory far exceeds

That base and sensual life, which leads
To want and shame.

This world is but the rugged road
Which leads us to the bright abode
Of peace above;

So let us choose that narrow way,
Which leads no traveller's foot astray
From realms of love.

HENRY W. Longfellow.

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