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Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.


As I walked by myself, I talked to myself,
And myself replied to me;

And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I give to thee.

Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself,
Their responses the same should be,


Oh! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself,
Or so much the worse for thee.

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If on false pretensions grounded,
Like the treacherous sand below.

What is Love? If earthly only,

Like a meteor of the night;
Shining but to leave more lonely
Hearts that hailed its transient light:

But when calm, refined, and tender,
Purified from passion's stain,
Like the moon, in gentle splendor,
Ruling o'er the peaceful main.

What are Hopes, but gleams of brightness,
Glancing darkest clouds between ?
Or foam-crested waves, whose whiteness
Gladdens ocean's darksome green.

What are Fears? Grim phantoms, throwing
Shadows o'er the pilgrim's way,

Every moment darker growing,

If we yield unto their sway.

What is Mirth? A flash of lightning,
Followed but by deeper gloom.
Patience? More than sunshine brightening
Sorrow's path, and labor's doom.

What is Time? A river flowing
To Eternity's vast sea,
Forward, whither all are rowing,
On its bosom bearing thee.

What is Life? A bubble floating
On that silent, rapid stream;
Few, too few, its progress noting,
Till it bursts, and ends the dream.

What is Death, asunder rending
Every tie we love so well?


But the gate to life unending,
Joy, in heaven! or woe; in hell!

Can these truths, by repetition,
Lose their magnitude or weight?
Estimate thine own condition,

Ere thou pass that fearful gate.

Hast thou heard them oft repeated,
Much may still be left to do:
Be not by profession cheated;
Live-as if thou knewest them true.

As I walked by myself, I talked to myself,
And myself replied to me;

And the questions myself then put to myself,
With their answers, I've given to thee.

Put them home to thyself, and if unto thyself
Their responses the same should be,

Oh! look well to thyself, and beware of thyself,
Or so much the worse for thee.



SAINT PHILIP NERI, as old readings say,
Met a young stranger in Rome's streets one day;
And being ever courteously inclined

To give young folks a sober turn of mind,

He fell into discourse with him; and thus
The dialogue they held comes down to us.

SAINT. Tell me what brings you, gentle youth, to Rome?
YOUTH. To make myself a scholar, sir, I come.
SAINT. And, when you are one, what do you intend?
YOUTH. To be a priest, I hope, sir, in the end.
SAINT. Suppose it so-what have you next in view?
YOUTH. That I may get to be a canon, too.

SAINT. Well; and how then?




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Why, then, for aught I know,

Be it so

I may be made a bishop.

What then?

Why, cardinal's a high degree-
And yet my lot it possibly may be.
SAINT. Suppose it was, what then?

Why, who can say
But I've a chance of being pope one day?
SAINT. Well, having worn the mitre and red hat,
And triple crown, what follows after that?
YOUTH. Nay, there is nothing further, to be sure,
Upon this earth that wishing can procure:
When I've enjoyed a dignity so high,

As long as God shall please, then I must die.
SAINT. What! must you die? fond youth! and at the best
But wish, and hope, and may be all the rest!
Take my advice-whatever may betide,
For that which must be, first of all provide ;
Then think of that which may be, and indeed,
When well prepared, who knows what may succeed?
But you may be, as you are pleased to hope,

Priest, canon, bishop, cardinal and pope.




OFT has it been my lot to mark
A proud, conceited, talking spark,
With eyes that hardly served at most
To guard their master 'gainst a post;
Yet round the world the blade has been,
To see whatever could be seen.
Returning from his finished tour,
Grown ten times perter than before;
Whatever word you chance to drop,
The travelled fool your mouth will stop:

"Sir, if my judgment you'll allow-
I've seen-and sure I ought to know "--
So begs you'd pay a due submission,
And acquiesce in his decision.

Two travellers of such a cast,
As o'er Arabia's wilds they passed,
And on their way, in friendly chat,
Now talked of this, and then of that;
Discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter,
Of the Chameleon's form and nature.
"A stranger animal," cries one,
"Sure never lived beneath the sun :
A lizard's body lean and long,
A fish's head, a serpent's tongue,
Its tooth with triple claw disjoined ;
And what a length of tail behind!
How slow its pace! and then its hue-
Who ever saw so fine a blue?"

"Hold there!" the other quick replies, "Tis green-I saw it with these eyes, As late with open mouth it lay, And warmed it in the sunny ray; Stretched at its ease the beast I viewed, And saw it eat the air for food."

"I've seen it, sir, as well as you,
And must again affirm it blue;
At leisure I the beast surveyed,
Extended in the cooling shade."

""Tis green! 'tis green, sir, I assure ye." "Green!" cries the other, in a fury:

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Why, sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?" ""Twere no great loss," the friend replies; "For if they always serve you thus, You'll find them but of little use."

So high at last the contest rose,
From words they almost came to blows:
When luckily came by a third;
To him the question they referred;
And begged he'd tell them, if he knew,

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