POETRY.
OLD AGE.
DEAR, though the first sweet sting of love be o'er,
The sweet that almost venom is ; though youth With tender and extravagant delight Pass off; there shall succeed a faithful peace ; Beautiful friendship tried by sun and wind, Durable from the daily dust of life.
And though with sadder, yet with kinder eyes We shall behold all frailties ; we shall haste To pardon and with mellowing minds to bless.
Like vista'd trees with lingering frondage bright We shall take on a sweeter fire ; and let Our later hours consume and duly fall.
Then, though we must grow old, we shall grow old Together, and you shall not greatly miss My faded bloom and waning light of eyes Too deeply gazed in ever to seem dim.
Nor shall we murmur at, nor much regret The years that gently bend us to the ground, But we shall hear across the bay of life, Without emotion, music infinite, Prepared by solemn chords for that vast song That stars from gladness cannot help but sing.
Or we shall sit with luminous holy smiles, Endeared by many a grief, many a jest, And custom sweet of living side by side; And full of memories, not unkindly glance Upon each other. Last, we shall descend
Into the natural ground—not without tears—
Still like old friends, glad to have met, and leave Behind a wholesome memory on the earth.
S. PHILLIPS.
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