Part 4 (2/2)

And he sat on a throne!

The wealth that a world could offer Was heaped in the New Year's coffer, For the world was his own.

He was a spendthrift though, And the coins of his lavish giving Were the golden moments of living,-- Coins that he squandered so.

He is a beggar now.

In the night and the storm he lingers, No gold in his prodigal fingers,-- King with the uncrowned brow.

Nothing to call his own!

His fortune scattered behind him; Death empty-handed shall find him,-- A New Year takes his throne.

Lost.

CHILDHOOD flits by with flowers in both its hands,-- We know not why it leaves, nor when it goes; But suddenly we miss some subtle grace, As perfume pa.s.ses from a fading rose; We scarce divine, yet somehow faintly feel In the soft air a far-blown breath of snows.

Straying afar, unheeded and alone Upon life's highway 'mid the busy throng, Swept in its eager, restless race along To the great future, unexplored, unknown, The little child is lost. And when with haste The wanderer's footsteps through the streets are traced, They find a man with features pale and stern, But the lost child will nevermore return.

The Robber.

DO you know why Time flies by so slow When we are sad and old?

Why he turns and waits as if loath to go On his journey cold?

Because from our coffers of hope and youth, Where we kept life's gold, He has stolen our treasures all, in sooth, From their sacred hold.

He who came with a gift in hand Was a robber bold.

He whose greeting was smooth and bland Was a wolf in the fold.

And this is the reason that he goes by, When we're worn and old, So slowly, because he can scarcely fly With his weight of gold.

My Carol.

'TIS the time when holly berries Grow red as the Yule-log's glow, And hearth and hall are decked by all With the green of the mistletoe.

Time when the joy of giving Is felt at each fireside, And wings seek rest in the old home nest, For the time is Christmas-tide.

<script>