As we hurry away to the end, my friend, Of this sad little farce called existence, We are sure that the future will bring one thing, And that is the grave in the distance. And so when our lives run along all wrong, And nothing seems real or certain, We can comfort ourselves with the thought (or not) Of that specter behind the curtain. But we haven’t much time to repine or whine, Or to wound or jostle each other; And the hour for us each is to-day, I say, If we mean to assist a brother. And there is no pleasure that earth gives birth, But the worry it brings is double; And all that repays for the strife of life, Is helping some soul in trouble. I tell you, if I could go back the track To my life’s morning hour, I would not set forth seeking name or fame, Or that poor bauble called power. I would be like the sunlight, and live to give; I would lend but I would not borrow; Nor would I be blind and complain of pain, Forgetting the meaning of sorrow. This world is a vaporous jest at best, Tossed off by the gods in laughter; And a cruel attempt at wit were it, If nothing better came after. It is reeking with hearts that ache and break, Which we ought to comfort and strengthen, As we hurry away to the end, my friend, And the shadows behind us lengthen. AT AN OLD DRAWER. Before this scarf was faded, What hours of mirth it knew! How gaily it paraded For smiling eyes to view! The days were tinged with glory, The nights too quickly sped, And life was like a story Where all the people wed. Before this rosebud wilted, How passionately sweet The wild waltz swelled and lilted In time for flying feet! How loud the bassoons muttered! The horns grew madly shrill; And, oh, the vows lips uttered That hearts could not fulfill. Before this fan was broken, Behind its lace and pearl What whispered words were spoken-- What hearts were in a whirl! What homesteads were selected In Fancy’s realm of Spain! What castles were erected, Without a room for pain! When this odd glove was mated, How thrilling seemed the play! May be our hearts are sated-- They tire so soon to-day. Oh, shut away those treasures, They speak the dreary truth-- We have outgrown the pleasures And keen delights of youth. THE OLD STAGE QUEEN. Back in the box by the curtains shaded, She sits alone by the house unseen; Her eye is dim, her cheek is faded, She who was once the people’s queen. The curtain rolls up, and she sees before her A vision of beauty and youth and grace. Ah! no wonder all hearts adore her, Silver-throated and fair of face.