Pass on! there is not of our blessings one That may not perish-- Like visiting angels whose errand is done, They are never at rest till their home is won, And we may not cherish The beautiful gift of _thy_ light--Pass on! TWENTY-TWO. I'm twenty-two--I'm twenty-two-- They gaily give me joy, As if I should be glad to hear That I was less a boy. They do not know how carelessly Their words have given pain, To one whose heart would leap to be A happy boy again. I had a light and careless heart When this brief year began, And then I pray'd that I might be A grave and perfect man. The world was like a blessed dream Of joyous coming years-- I did not know its manliness Was but to wake in tears. A change has on my spirit come, I am forever sad; The light has all departed now My early feelings had; I used to love the morning grey, The twilight's quiet deep, But now like shadows on the sea, Upon my thoughts they creep. And love was like a holy star, When this brief year was young, And my whole worship of the sky On one sweet ray was flung; But worldly things have come between, And shut it from my sight, And though the star shines purely yet, I mourn its hidden light. And fame! I bent to it the knee, And bow'd to it my brow, And it is like a coal upon My living spirit now-- But when I pray'd for burning fire To touch the soul I bow'd, I did not know the lightning flash Would come in such a cloud. Ye give me joy! Is it because Another year has fled?-- That I am farther from my youth, And nearer to the dead? Is it because my cares have come?-- My happy boyhood o'er?-- Because the visions I have lov'd Will visit me no more? Oh, tell me not that ye are glad! I cannot smile it back; I've found no flower, and seen no light On manhood's weary track. My love is deep--ambition deep-- And heart and mind _will_ on-- But love is fainting by the way, And fame consumes ere won. ON A PICTURE OF CHILDREN PLAYING. BY FISHER. I love to look on a scene like this, Of wild and careless play, And persuade myself that I am not old And my locks are not yet gray; For it stirs the blood in old man's heart, And makes his pulses fly, To catch the thrill of a happy voice, And the light of a pleasant eye. I have walked the world for fourscore years, And they say that I am old; That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death, And my years are well nigh told. It is very true--it is very true-- I'm old, and 'I bide my time'-- But my heart will leap at a scene like this, And I half renew my prime.