THE FLIGHT OF YOUTH.

There are gains for all our losses,

There are balms for all our pain: But when youth, the dream, departs, It takes something from our hearts, And it never comes again.

We are stronger, and are better, Under manhood's sterner reign: Still we feel that something sweet Followed youth, with flying feet, And will never come again.

Something beautiful is vanished,
And we sigh for it in vain :

We behold it everywhere,
On the earth, and in the air,

But it never comes again.

When from his work the sculptor stayed

His hand, and turned to one

Who stood beside him, half in shade,
Said, with a sigh, ""Tis done.

"Thus much is saved from chance and change,

That waits for me and thee;

Thus much-how little !—from the range
Of death and destiny.

'Phryne, thy human lips shall pale,

Thy rounded limbs decay,—

Nor love nor prayers can aught avail
To bid thy beauty stay;

"But there thy smiles for centuries

On marble lips shall live,—

For art can grant what love denies,
And fix the fugitive.

Sad thought! nor age nor death shall fade The youth of this cold bust;

When this quick brain and hand that made, And thou and I are dust!

"When all our hopes and fears are dead,
And both our hearts are cold,
And love is like a tune that's played,

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And life a tale that's told,

This senseless stone, so coldly fair,
That love nor life can warm,
The same enchanting look shall wear,
The same enchanting form.

Its peace no sorrow shall destroy;

Its beauty age shall spare

The bitterness of vanished joy,

The wearing waste of care.

And there upon that silent face

Shall unborn ages see

Perennial youth, perennial grace,

And sealed serenity.

'And strangers, when we sleep in peace,

Shall say, not quite unmoved,

So smiled upon Praxiteles

The Phryne whom he loved."

IO VICTIS!

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of life,Thy hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding

acclaim

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet

of fame,

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken

in heart,

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desper

ate part;

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded,

alone,

With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus,-its

those who have won;

breeze and the sun

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field

of defeat,

In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper-"They only the

victory win,

"Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the de

mon that tempts us within;

"Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;

"Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be to die."

Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say.

Are they those whom the world called the victors—who won the success of a day?

The Martyrs or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopy

lae's tryst,

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?

COMPANIONS ON THE ROAD.

Life's milestones, marking year on year,

Pass even swifter as we near

The final goal, the silent end

To which our fated footsteps tend,

A year once seemed a century,

Now like a day it hurries by,

And doubts and fears our hearts oppress,

And all the way is weariness.

Ah me! how glad and gay we were,

Youth's sap in all our veins astir,
When long ago with spirits high,

A happy careless company,