SEA SPRAY &> SMOKE DRIFT 



Yet sooner or later the hour will come 

 When its chips are thrown to the sod. 



Is it wise, then, say, in the waning day, 



When the vessel is crack't and old, 

 •To cherish the battered potters' clay. 



As though it were virgin gold ? 

 Take care of yourself, dull, boorish elf. 



Though prudent and safe you seem. 

 Your pitcher will break on the musty shelf, 



And mine by the dazzling stream. 



Fytte VII 

 CITO PEDE PRETERIT JETAS 



A PHILOSOPHICAL DISSERTATION 



" Gillian's dead, God rest her bier — 



How I loved her many years syne ; 

 Marion's married, but I sit here, 

 Alive and merry at three-score year, 



Dipping my nose in Gascoigne wine." 



IVamda's Song. — Thackeray. 



A mellower light doth Sol afford. 



His meridian glare has passed. 

 And the trees on the broad and sloping sward 



Their lengthening shadows cast. 

 " Time flies." The current will be no joke. 



If swollen by recent rain, 



34 



