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T
HE car of life that whirls along, has passengers of mirth and song, And some likewise who hardly know the schedule time on which they go; While the conductor takes the fares of many, who with silver hairs Have found much dress in making up the draft of life--the brimming cup, Which now is loaded to the brim with little cups, pronounced in sin, And still we seldom know the way by which to go, until the day Is nearly spent, when in the west the train runs fast, as might be guessed, From whence a look upon the sea is given you, is given me. A golden beam may hem the cloud, gloomy perhaps as Caesar's shroud, And while our hearts may love the glow, the settings deep we glance to know, And when the curtain has been drawn and all the stages looked upon, We turn away in very grief and seek the nectar of relief, Because the cloud beyond the hue, although in altitude of blue, Contained the elements to fear, and still the golden fringe drew near; The anxious hands which seek to hold, even the dress, if touched with gold Which buys on earth a cherished place, yet costs the Value of the race. |