  THE RIVERBY 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. 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. |
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