The years are shades that totter from their tombs, The ages, ghosts that live in catacombs And lure the Present to their awful homes, Where ancient races wander in the glooms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms, And presses them like infants to her breast, Repeats to them her lullabies of rest, And guards them from all sorrows and alarms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! Then hasten, world, and let my battle cease; I care not where I stay nor when I go; For action gives unhappiness and woe, But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more! IF LOVE WERE KING. If Love were king, That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure, But for its children spends its fondest treasure, Sad hearts would sing, And all the hosts of misery and wrong Forget their anguish in the happy song That joy would bring. If Love were king, Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features, And virtue would to all the world's sad creatures Her treasures fling; Till drooping souls would rise above their fate, And find sweet flowers for all the desolate And sorrowing. If Love were king, Before the scepter of his might should vanish Toil's curse and care, and happiness should banish Want's awful sting; While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw Delightful raptures over all below, And gladness bring. If Love were king, The nations would eternal sunshine borrow, And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow And every thing That binds the race in groans and agony; Life's changing seasons would forever be Unvaried spring. If Love were king! O, broken feet that wander worn and weary Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary, With rapture cling Your anguished arms about him; drink delight Upon his perfect bosom soft and white And comforting! "SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER." Our souls are the deserts of sorrow, Our hearts are the ashes of hope, And madly from gladness we borrow The brightness where sadness may grope; My raptures in wretchedness vanish, My bosom is weeping with wrongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs. My joys are in memory lying, Still ardently happy with youth, When smiles in ambition were dying, And life was the vision of youth; My brow for your gentle caresses And kisses of tenderness longs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.