As yet they make of life a dancing race, Rarely they pause to pant, still less to think; They have not met the dark ones face to face, They have not shuddered o'er the ghastly brink. Life's holiday is theirs;--how sweet to hear The gay young laughter rippling down the wind; Ah! who would breathe the name of care or fear, Or hint that fortune could be less than kind! They skim gazelle-like pitfalls set in flowers, Too glib their ankles for the serpent's bite, Yet on and on they rush to meet the hours Of dimness and perplexity and night. Yes, each must suffer, and some too will fall, But not for aye need sin and grief o'ercast; May He who knows His lambs, and loves them all, To His own fold ingather them at last. THE SIREN. A Siren on a rocky isle, A youth upon the cliff is seen; She tries his fancy to beguile, The deep dark water moans between. "Gentle thou art," he saith, "and fair, Yet nought thine azure eyes avail, Amid the golden coils of hair, Gleams weirdly forth the fish's tail." Yet still he gazed, she smiled the more: She sang a wondrous witching strain; He groaned and sighed, he laughed and swore, Then plunged into the deadly main. [Illustration] THE STRANGE CHOICE. How grim the woods, the tower how pale; The landscape colourless and cold, While all the hovel foul and frail, The ragged thatch and battered sail, Are gorgeous in the sunset gold! Such seems the girl's capricious part, Who flouts the noble, wise, and true, And wastes her loving burning heart, And glorifies with doting art The basest of her courting crew. THE PUDDLE. This shallow pool which ruffling in the breeze, Spurts gold and azure at the morning sun, Ere night will be a blot of slimy lees, By the absorbing heat and wind foredone. Thou dost with glittering surface, puddle fine, Of fools and prodigals the fate pourtray, Who in the transient flattery swell and shine Of knaves who suck their substance all away. THE MIRY LANE.