MEMENTO MORI.

With all his convent, honourably received him;

O FATHER ABBOT,

To whom he gave these words:
AN OLD MAN, BROKEN WITH THE STORMS OF STATE,
IS COME TO LAY HIS WEARY BONES AMONG YE;
GIVE HIM A LITTLE EARTH FOR CHARITY!"
So went to bed: where eagerly his sickness
Pursued him still; and, three nights after this,
About the hour of eight (which he himself
Foretold should be his last) full of repentance,
Continual meditations, tears, and sorrows,

He gave his honours to the world again,
His blessed part to Heaven, and slept in peace.

MEMENTO MORI.

ON this side, and on that, men see their friends
Drop off, like leaves in Autumn; yet launch out
Into fantastic schemes, which the long livers
In the world's hale and undegenerate days
Could scarce have leisure for; fools that we are;
Never to think of Death and of ourselves

At the same time! as if to learn to die

Were no concern of ours. Oh! more than sottish!
For creatures of a day, in gamesome mood
To frolic on eternity's dread brink
Unapprehensive; when, for aught we know,
The very first swoln surge shall sweep us in!

189

THERE is a false Alchemy and a true. Records of the Middle Ages abound in narratives of lives wasted in pursuit of the marvellous stone whose touch should turn all things to gold. Many of these Alchemists were enthusiasts who sincerely believed in and earnestly pursued this ignis fatuus, and who, in extreme old age, closed their life-long labours under the humbling conviction that their own unworthiness had been the sole cause of failure. Their misdirected efforts failed. They sought only the gold whose currency is "of the earth earthy." Faith in God is the true Alchemy which transmutes the base material of an earthly career into "the fine gold of the Kingdom." I have known many admirable old men, who, unlike Ben Jonson's Alchemist, "your sooty smoke-bearded compeer,"

THE END OF LIFE.

191

could look back along the line of life and see that a cheerful, happy piety had proved to them a mine of perpetual wealth, a very Fortunatus' purse, inexhaustible of treasure, and who have died like the brave old covenanter, thanking God that ever they were born."

"This is the famous stone

That turneth all to gold;

For that which God doth touch and own

Cannot for less be told."

In this sense we may understand our Lord's words, "Verily I say unto you, There is no man that hath left house, or parents, or brethren, or wife, or children, for the kingdom of God's sake, who shall not receive manifold more in this present time, and in the world to come life everlasting." Losses enrich, humiliations ennoble, tribulations bless, when they are endured for Christ's sake. This is the true Philosopher's Stone.

THE END OF LIFE.

WHAT though the moments fly?

Mourn not their speed;

Sweet shall thy portion be

Whither they lead.

Though sorrow count the hours,

Hoping the last,

Let not thy spirit faint,

Ere they be past.

Smile when the moments fly,

Smile when they stay,

Life's longest, shortest night,

Closes in day.

The grace, the gentleness of virtuous age!
Though solemn, not austere; though wisely dead
To passion, and the wildering dreams of hope,
Not unalive to tenderness and truth,-

The good old man is honoured and revered,
And breathes upon the young limbed race around
A grey and venerable charm of years.

A GODLESS AND GLOOMY OLD AGE.

193

A GODLESS AND GLOOMY OLD AGE.

OH! ever loving, lovely and beloved!
How selfish sorrow ponders on the past,

And clings to thoughts now better far removed!

But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last.

All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death! thou hast ;
The parent, friend, and now the more than friend:

Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast,

And grief with grief continuing still to blend,

Hath snatched the little joy that life had yet to lend.

Then must I plunge again into the crowd,
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek?
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly loud,
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek,
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak:

Still o'er the features, which perforce they cheer,
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique,
Smiles form the channel of a future tear,

Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled sneer.

What is the worst of foes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from life's page,
And be alone on earth, as I am now.
Before the Chastener humbly let me bow,
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroyed;
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow,
Since Time hath reft whate'er my soul enjoyed,
And with the ills of Eld mine elder years alloyed.

BB