SEVEN.
Yet looks the morning fair and young,
Yet floats the rosehue through the air,
And nameless graces yet are flung
On every thing, and everywhere:
The grace and radiance of young life,
A "joy forever" to the soul;
A joy with new existence rife,
And spring and fountain of the whole.
Youth! even though it only be
The morning of the common day,
Yet holds a spell of power, which we
May make our charm against decay.
EIGHT.
If you pass along the street,
You shall hear the sound of singing;
Patter too of little feet,
On the sunny pavement ringing.
'Tis the hour of morning sport,
Ere the bells will chime for school;
At the best it is too short—
Harder play the better rule.
Long ago the laborer's toil began;
Long ago the townsman sought his task;
Long ago the busy artisan
Whistled to his work, with merry mask:
Now we see what toil and what endeavor,
Haunt man's footsteps to the grave forever.
NINE.
Now the lazy urchin lags and lingers
In the shadow of the wayside trees;
Tossing pebbles from his careless fingers,
