As when, full master of his art, the air
Drowns in the liquid sea of song he flings
Like silver spray from beak, and breast, and wings.
The artist's earliest effort, wrought with care,
The bard's first ballad, written in his tears,
Set by his later toil, seems poor and tame,
And into nothing dwindles at the test.
So with the passions of maturer years.
Let those who will demand the first fond flame,
Give me the heart's LAST LOVE, for that is best.



LIFE'S TRACK



This game of life is a dangerous play,
Each human soul must watch alway,
From the first to the very last.
I care not however strong and pure -
Let no man say he is perfectly sure
The dangerous reefs are past.

For many a rock may lurk near by,
That never is seen when the tide is high -
Let no man dare to boast,
When the hand is full of trumps--beware,
For that is the time when thought and care
And nerve are needed most.