These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who _cannot share_ The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, _Is--that his grave is green_; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice." "The Lapse of Time" is a piece which might be quoted as a favourable specimen of Mr Bryant's poetry. It might also serve as an instance of its _shortcoming_--of its want of concentration--of a distinct, firm tone of thought. As it is not long, we will quote the whole of it. Our complaint of a certain weakness--the want of a steady and strong grasp of his subject--could not be less disagreeably illustrated, nor brought to a more rigid test. Our italics here are not complimentary, but simply serve the purpose of drawing attention to the train of thought or sentiment:-- THE LAPSE OF TIME. "Lament who will, in fruitless tears, The speed with which our moments fly; I sigh not over vanished years, But watch _the years that hasten by_. _Look how they come_--a mingled crowd Of bright and dark, but rapid days; Beneath them, like a summer cloud, The wide world changes as I gaze. What! grieve that time _has brought so soon The sober age of manhood on_! As idly might I weep, at noon, To see the blush of morning gone. Could I give up the hopes that glow In prospect like Elysian isles, And let the cheerful future go, With all her promises and smiles? _The Future! cruel were the power_ _Whose doom would tear thee from my heart,_ _Thou sweetener of the present hour!_ _We cannot--no--we will not part._ Oh, leave me still the rapid flight That makes the changing seasons gay-- The grateful speed that brings the night, The swift and glad return of day; The months that touch with added grace This little prattler at my knee, In whose arch eye and speaking face New meaning every hour I see. The years that o'er each sister land Shall lift the country of my birth, And nurse her strength till she shall stand The pride and pattern of the earth: Till younger commonwealths, for aid, Shall cling about her ample robe, And from her frown shall shrink afraid The crowned oppressors of the globe. _True--time will seam and blanch my brow_; Well--I shall sit with aged men, And my good glass shall tell me how A grizzly beard becomes me then. And then should no dishonour lie Upon my head when I am grey, Love yet shall watch my fading eye, And smooth the path of my decay. Then, haste thee, Time--'tis kindness all That speeds thy wingèd feet so fast; Thy pleasures stay not till they pall, And all thy pains are quickly past.