Hiram Ladd Spencer
The River
BY cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray
With weariness and sorrow,
Awhile I pause, and then away,
And in the wild and restless Bay
I lose myself to-morrow.
I turn the wheels of many mills,
By many islands dally;
I gossip with the daffodils,
And to my bosom take the rills
That from the woodlands sally.
I love the songs that childhood sings—
Its smiles and roguish glances,—
A picture paint of many things
That o’er the mind a halo flings
As onward time advances.
I listen to the tender chime
Of city bells a-swaying:
O dower of youth! O wealth of time!
O pleasant dreams! O hopes sublime,
When all the world’s a-swaying!
By cliffs grown gray, as men grow gray
With weariness and sorrow,
Awhile I pause, and then away,
Like you who loiter here to-day,
And lose myself to-morrow.
A Hundred Years to Come
WHERE, where will be the birds that sing,
A hundred years to come?
The flowers that now in beauty spring,
A hundred years to come?
The rosy cheek,
The lofty brow,
The heart that beats
So gaily now:
Where, where will be our hopes and fears,
Joy’s pleasant smiles and Sorrow’s tears,
A hundred years to come?
Who’ll press for gold this crowded street,
A hundred years to come?
Who’ll tread yon aisles with willing feet,
A hundred years to come?
Pale, trembling Age,
And fiery Youth,
And Childhood with
Its brow of truth;
The rich, the poor, on land and sea,
Where will the mighty millions be,
A hundred years to come?
We all within our graves will sleep,
A hundred years to come;
No living soul for us will weep,
A hundred years to come;
But other men
Our homes will fill,
And others then
Our lands will till,
And other birds will sing as gay,
And bright the sunshine as to-day,
A hundred years to come.