THE GOLDEN AGE.

Then life was young And roses hung In gay festoons from star to star, And o’er the farm A silvered charm, The moonlight, flooded full and far— The moonlight, telling wondrous tales Of things that are not, and that are. How strange the thrall Around it all! The subtle flapping of a wing! You plainly hear Each wheaten spear Unto its neighbour whispering, And almost catch their secrets, too— Those kindred children of the Spring! And, watching so, The branches throw Fantastic shadows on the grass: How quaint and clear Their lines appear! A woven way where fancies pass— Those secret bairns, that come to most, And live and breathe—but die—alas! No longer chimes The gold of rhymes That would make music, ay or nay! I number still The month, at will, Clare gave to me a lilac spray ... ’Tis dead and withered now—how long? An age, a year, or yesterday. Thus rhyme and spray Have turned to clay, While Discord plays on life’s guitar ... ’Twere wise and meet To book a seat, A cushioned seat, in Daphne’s car, While bright eyes shine, and roses twine In gay festoons from star to star!