'T IS well to celebrate the days
That mark the flight of years,
And, thoughtful, take account of stock,—
The joys, the hopes, the fears,
That crowd the life, or broad or brief,
Along the curious maze,
A precious tribute, each, in turn,
On Memory's altar lays.

Thou canst not e'er forget the eve,
In thy young brilliant life,
When, without change of soul or name,
Thou wast a wedded wife.
Forget? Oh, no; nor, nobler still,
The blessings of that other,
When infant beauty on thee smiled.
Saluting thee as mother.

Refreshing as, in summer's heat,
Comes to the rose the dew,
And gladdening as the perfumed breeze,
Thy heart so warm and true;
Knitting fresh links of love and bliss,
An ever-lengthening chain,
Thine is the honored sum, to-day,
Of fourscore years and twain.