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Weep out thy sacred grief

Here on my heart:
Sweet was their stay, but brief,

Soon to depart;
Still with the joy of old

Breathe each loved name They have but left the fold,

We did the same.

E'en though they all are gone,

Smile, darling, smile!
Think how each treasured one

Lingered awhile;
Look up, dear wife, and say

Softly with me, “They have but flown away,

Birds must be free !"

Human Life.

A Anden werden en stage women merely players.

They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man, in his time, plays many parts;
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant.
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining schoolboy with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like a snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard;
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel;
Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair, round belly, with good capon lined,
With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances,
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side;
His youthful hose well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

- Shakespeare.

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I'm growing careless of my dress;

I'm growing frugal of my gold; I'm growing wise; I'm growing.– yes,

I'm growing old! I see it in my changing taste;

I see it in my changing hair;
I see it in my growing waist;

I see it in my growing heir;
A thousand signs proclaim the truth,

As plain as truth was ever told,
That, even in my vaunted youth,

I'm growing old! Ah me! my very laurels breathe

The tale in my reluctant ears, And every boon the hours bequeath

But makes me debtor to the years! E'en Flattery's honeyed words declare

The secret she would sain withhold, And tells in "How young you are!"

I'm growing old!

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If you would make the aged happy, lead them to feel that there is still a place for them

where they can be useful. When you see their powers failing, do not notice it. It is enough for them to feel it without a reminder. Do not humiliate them by doing things after them. Accept their offered services, and do not let them see you taking off the dust their poor eyesight has left undisturbed, or wiping up the liquid their trembling hands have spilled; rather let the dust remain, and the liquid stain the carpet, than rob them of their self-respect by seeing you cover their deficiencies. You may give them the best room in your house, you may garnish it with pictures and flowers, you may yield them the best seat in your churchpew, the easiest chair in your parlor, the highest seat of honor at your table; but if you lead or leave them to feel that they have passed their usefulness, you plant a thorn in their bosom that will rankle there while life lasts. If they are capable of doing nothing but preparing your kindlings, or darning your stockings, indulge them in those things, but never let them feel that it is because they can do nothing else; rather that they do this so well.

Do not ignore their taste and judgment. It may be that in their early days, and in the circle where they moved, they were as much sought and honored as you are now; and until you arrive at that place, you can ill imagine your feelings should you be considered entirely void of these qualities, be regarded as essential to no one, and your opinions be unsought, or discarded if given. They may have been active and successful in the training of children and youth in the way they should go; and will they not feel it keenly, if no attempt is made to draw from this rich experience ?

Indulge them as far as possible in their old habits. The various forms of society in which they were educated may be as dear to them as yours are now to you; and can they see them slighted or disowned without a pang? If they relish their meals better by turning their tea into the saucer, having their butter on the same plate with their food, or eating with both knife and fork, do not in word or deed imply to th that the customs of their days are obnoxious in good society; and that they are stepping down from respectability as they descend the hillside of life. Always bear in mind that the customs of which you are now so tenacious may be equally repugnant to the next generation.

In this connection I would say, do not notice the pronunciation of the aged. They speak as they were taught, and yours may be just as uncourtly to the generations following. I was once taught a lesson on this subject, which I shall never forget while memory holds its sway. I was dining, where a father brought his son to take charge of a literary institution. He was intelligent, but had not received the early advantages which he had labored hard to procure for his son; and his language was quite a contrast to that of the cultivated youth. But the attention and deference he gave to his father's quaint though wise remarks, placed him on a higher pinnacle in my mind, than he was ever placed by his world-wide reputation as a scholar and writer.

Left Alone at Eighty.


THAT did you say, dear-breakfast?

Somehow I've slept too late.
You are very kind, dear Effie;

Go tell them not to wait.
I'll dress as quick as ever I can,

My old hands tremble sore.
And Polly, who used to help, dear heart,

Lies t'other side of the door.

And threw the stem away.
But she, sweet thrifty soul, bent down,

And planted it where she stood;
Dear, maybe the flowers are living,” she said,

“Asleep in this bit of wood."

Put up the old pipe deary

I couldn't smoke to-day:
I'm sort o' dazed and frightened,

And don't know what to say.
It's lonesome in the house here,

And lonesome out o' door-
I never knew what lonesome meant

In all my life before.

I can't rest, dear, I cannot rest;

Let the old man have his will,
And wander from porch to garden-post-

The house is so deathly still;—
Wander, and long for the sight of the gate

She has left ajar for me;
We had got so used to each other, dear,

So used to each other, you see.
Sixty years, and so wise and good,

She made me a better man;
From the moment I kissed her fair young face,

Our lover's life began.
And seven fine boys she has given me,

And out of the seven not one
But the noblest father in all the land

Would be proud to call his son.

The bees go humming the whole day long,

And the first June rose has blown;
And I am eighty, dear Lord, to-day,

Too old to be left alone!
Oh, heart of love! so still and cold,

Oh precious lips so white!
For the first sad hours in sixty years,

You were out of my reach last night.

Oh, well, dear Lord, I'll be patient!

But I feel sore broken up;
At eighty years it's an awesome thing

To drain such a bitter cup.
I know there's Joseph, and John, and Hal,

And four good men beside;

You've cut the flower. You're very kind;

She rooted it last May.
It was only a slip; I pulled the rose,

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