They met again,—but different from themselves,—
At least what each remembered of themselves:
The one proud as a soldier of his rank,
And of his many battles: and the other
Proud of his Indian wealth, and of the skill
And toil which gather'd it: each with a brow
And heart alike darken'd by years and care.
They met with cold words and yet colder looks;
Each was chang'd in himself, and yet each thought
The other only chang'd, himself the same.
And coldness bred dislike; and rivalry
Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts
That linger'd yet, healthy and beautiful,
Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they
Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word,
Were strangers in their age: if their eyes met,
'T was but to look contempt, and when they spoke,
Their speech was wormwood!
—And this, this is life!
No! with all due respect to our fair poetess, this is not life. Doubtless there have been, and are, and long will be instances of brethren who have loved each other in childhood becoming strangers, almost haters, in manhood: but to assert that life is composed of such cases is to libel Providence and to dishearten man. Let the melancholy say what they will, enduring affection is not a fable, not a poet's dream: it is a high and a holy reality, one of the least deniable truths existing in the world: and only an erring or bewildered soul can doubt it.
Life!—No! Doubt and distrust, change and coldness, these are not Life—they form but the merest fraction of life. Life!—a never-ending rush of varied, new-created, unsoiled moments, every one of which bears its freight of happiness, every one of which may be turned to our enjoyment if we please; countless bright fountains around us, from which pleasure never ceases to flow; friends to cheer,—kindred to bless,—flowers of beauty and sounds of infinite music to soothe and to charm—high hopes
