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; | Sleeping long years below. To-day is but a structure built 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 "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.' |