WILLIAM HASKELL SIMPSON.

117

 
This is the quiet end of all 
The old-time strife and hurting fall^__
Love holds me in its pleasing thrall. 
 
Yet not the close! My precious boy, 
In unrestrained and childish joy, 
Is playing with some curious toy: 
 
For him my old ambition burns, 
For him my heart in silence yearns, 
As one by one life's ways he learns. 
 
He, too, in part these paths will tread: 
May he press on, sure-stepped, ahead, 
To where the victor's cheeks blush red! 
 

LOVE RENEWED.

 
_____ 
 
SO MUCH to do ere hands are cold; 
So far to fare, ere limbs grow old; 
So much to say, if all is told^__
 
That we lose sight of better things; 
Forget, in earthward wanderings, 
To use love's buoyant sweeping wings. 
 
And I^__yes, I sometimes forget
To lure away your care and fret, 
And kiss the cheeks by teardrops wet.