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The cattle on a thousand hills Clip the sweet buds that grow

The pebbles lie 'neath the sunny sky Rank from the soil enriched by herds

Quiet forevermore;

In dreams of everlasting peace

They sleep upon the shore.

But ugly, and rough, and jagged still, Are they left by the passing years;

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Sleeping long years below.

To-day is but a structure built

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THE OLD MAN'S MOTTO. "GIVE me a motto," said a youth To one whom years had rendered wise:

"Some pleasant thought, or weighty truth,

That briefest syllables comprise; Some word of warning or of cheer To grave upon my signet here.

"And, reverend father," said the boy,

"Since life, they say, is ever made A mingled web of grief and joy; Since cares may come and pleasures fade,

Pray, let the motto have a range
Of meaning matching every change."

"Sooth!" said the sire, "methinks you ask

A labor something over-nice, That well a finer brain might task.

What think you, lad, of this device (Older than I, though I am gray). 'Tis simple, This will pass away.'

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