As Time
Glides
On
Hazell, Watson & Viney, Limd. Lith.
London & Aylesbury.
I wear not the purple of earth-born kings,
Nor the stately ermine of lordly things;
But monarch and courtier though great they be,
Must fall from their glory, and bend to me.
My sceptre is gemless; yet who can say
They will not come under its mighty sway?
Ye may learn who I am,—there's the passing chime
And the dial to herald me—Old King Time!
Eliza Cook.
The Months
in Picture and Poem.
arranged by
G. Thompson Hutchinson.
Frank Hobden, George H. Edwards, H. F. Hobden,
A. Woodruff
and
Allan Barraud.
LONDON
Hodder and Stoughton,
27, Paternoster Row.
The months are met with their crownlets on,
As Julius Cæsar crowned them;
With slaves the gentleman thirty-one,
And the ladies thirty round them.
Old Ballad.
Day follows night; and night
The dying day: stars rise, and set, and rise:
Earth takes th' example. See, the summer gay,
With her green chaplet, and embrosial flowers,
Droops into pellid autumn: winter grey,
Horrid with frost, and turbulent with storm,
Blows autumn and his golden fruits away;
Then melts into the spring, soft spring, with breath
Favonian, from warm chambers of the south,
Recalls the first. All to reflourish, fades:
As in a wheel, all sinks, to re-ascend,
Emblems of man, who passes, not expires.
Young.
The trees all bare and leafless.
The winds so piercing blow:
The waters too are frozen,
And earth is wrapt in snow.
A thousand wishes passing,
Greetings from friend to friend:
Youths, maids are gaily singing,
The Old Year's cares at end.
Good bye to trials and sorrow,
To all that is dark and drear:
This is time for rejoicing,
First month of a glad New Year.
Another year in life begun,
'Tis thus the time glides by,
Hast'ning on to the realms above,
To that home beyond the sky.
F. O. H.
The snow has left the cottage roof;
The thatch-moss grows in brighter green;
And eaves in quick succession drop,
Where grinning icicles have been,
Pit-patting with a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage door;
While ducks and geese with happy joys
Plunge in the yard-pond brimming o'er.
The small birds think their wants are o'er
To see the snow hills fret again,
And from the barn's chaff-littered door
Betake them to the greening plain.
The woodman's robin startles coy,
No longer to his elbow comes
To peck, with hunger's eager joy,
'Mong mossy stumps the littered crumbs.
On all green places where ye blow,
Tenderest thoughts of GOD that grow,
Violets! March violets!
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