THOU hast a fair, unsullied cheek-- A clear and dreaming eye, Whose bright and winning glances speak Of life's first revelry; And on thy brow no look of care Comes like a cloud, to cast a shadow there. In feeling's early freshness blest-- Thy wants and wishes few: Rich hopes are garnered in thy breast, As summer's morning dew Is found, like diamonds, in the rose-- Nestling, midst folded leaves, in sweet repose. Keep thus, in love, the heritage Of thy ephemeral spring; Keep its pure thoughts, till after age Weigh down thy spirit's wing; Keep the warm heart--the hate of sin. And heavenly peace will on thy soul break in. And when the even-song of years Brings in its shadowy train The record of life's hopes and fears, Let it not be in vain, That backward on existence thou canst look, As on a pictured page or pleasant book. * * * * * IN the wonder which we feel as to children growing old, we are apt to associate ourselves with them. When one who, in the hey-dey of his blood, and before the glow of the _purpureum lumen_ of his 'better-most hours' has begun to diminish, is led to regard (and to _hear_, beside, for the fact rings often at his auricular portals,) that a vital extract is extant, he wonders if that 'embryon atom' will ever come to denominate the agent of his being as 'the old gentleman!' Of course, it must be impossible. Yet 'there is no mistake on some points.' In the course of his travels, Old Time effects many a marvel; but he pushes on with his agricultural implement, and streaming fore-lock; (nobody 'does him proud,' and he disdains the toupée,) until his _oldest_ friends are metamorphosed, and his youngest begin to experience how '_tempora mutantur, et nos mutamur in illis_.' This reminds me of a song, which I like amazingly, because it contains such a mingling of truth, beauty, and melody: I OFTEN think each tottering form That limps along in life's decline, Once bore a heart as young, as warm, As full of idle thoughts, as MINE! And each has had his dream of joy, His own unequalled, pure romance; Commencing, when the blushing boy First thrills at lovely woman's glance. And each could tell his tale of youth-- Would think its scenes of love evince More passion, more unearthly truth, Than any tale, before or since. Yes! they could tell of tender lays At midnight penned, in classic shades, Of days more bright than modern days-- Of maids more fair than living maids. Of whispers in a willing ear, Of kisses on a blushing cheek-- Each kiss, each whisper, far too dear, For modern lips to give or speak. Of prospects, too, untimely crossed, Of passion slighted or betrayed-- Of kindred spirits early lost, And buds that blossomed but to fade.