Grandpapa's years are wearing few,

But he leaves a blessing behind

A good life lived, and a good fight fought,
True heart and equal mind.

"Remember, my children," says mamma,
"You bear the name of your grandpapa."

FATHER WILLIAM.

MRS. CRAIK.

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks that are left you are gray;

You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man ;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remembered that youth would fly fast; And abused not my health and my vigor at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried. And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

196

A MASQUERADE.

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

66

"I remembered that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, And life must be hast'ning away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied, "Let the cause thy attention engage:

In the days of my youth I remembered my God,
And He hath not forgotten my age."

A MASQUERADE.

A little old woman before me
Went slowly down the street;
Walking as if aweary

Were her feeble, tottering feet.

SOUTHEY.

From under her old poke bonnet
I caught a gleam of snow,
And her waving cap-string floated,
Like a pennon, to and fro.

In the folds of her rusty mantle
Sudden her footstep caught,

And I sprang to keep her from falling,
With a touch as quick as thought.

When, under the old poke bonnet,
I saw a winsome face,

Framed in with the flaxen ringlets
Of my wee daughter Grace.

Mantle and cap together

Dropped off at my very feet;
And there stood the little fairy,
Beautiful, blushing, sweet!

Will it be like this, I wonder,
When at last we come to stand
On the golden, ringing pavement
Of the blesséd, blesséd land?

Losing the rusty garments

We wore in the years of Time, Will our better selves spring backward, Serene in a youth sublime?

198

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

Instead of the shapes that hid us,
And made us old and gray,

Shall we get our child-hearts back again,
With a brightness that will stay?

I thought but my little daughter

Slipped her dimpled hand in mine; "I was only playing," she whispered, "That I was ninety-nine."

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD.

They grew in beauty, side by side,
They filled one home with glee ;
Their graves are severed far and wide,
By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night
O'er each fair, sleeping brow;
She had each folded flower in sight:
Where are those sleepers now?

One, midst the forest of the West,
By a dark stream is laid;

The Indian knows his place of rest,
Far in the cedar shade.