« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
SPRING it is cheery,
Winter is dreary, Green leaves hang, but the brown must fly;
When he's forsaken,
Withered and shaken, What can an old man do but die ?
Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him, Mand and Marian pass him by ;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye !
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly, – What can an old man do but die ?
Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
Gold 's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches !) What can an old man do but die ?
They say that in his prime,
Cut him down,
Through the town.
So forlorn ;
“They are gone."
In their bloom ;
On the tomb.
In the snow.
Like a staff ;
In his laugh.
At him here,
WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN?
WHEN shall we all meet again ?
Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky;
But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, and all that,
Are so queer !
There's not a blade will grow, boys, 'T is cropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.
Send the colt to fair, boys,
THE APPROACH OF AGE.
FROM “TALES OF THE HALL."
Six years had passed, and forty ere the six,
choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on ; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft, - in short, began to prose.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
There's something not right, boys,
You may give over plough, boys,
0, POUR upon my soul again
That sad, unearthly strain That seems from other worlds to plain ! Thus falling, falling from afar, As if some melancholy star Had mingled with her light her sighs,
And dropped them from the skies. No, never came from aught below
This melody of woe, That makes my heart to overflow, As from a thousand gushing springs Unknown before ; that with it brings This nameless light — if light it be —
That veils the world I see.
The stairs are too steep, boys,
For all I see around me wears
The hue of other spheres ; And something blent of smiles and tears Comes from the very air I breathe. O, nothing, sure, the stars beneath, Can mould a sadness like to this,
So like angelic bliss !
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
Sat a hoary pilgrim, sadly musing;
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding;
There he sat!
(Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my thirty-sixth year.).
"T is time this heart should be unmoved,
Still let me love.
My days are in the yellow leaf,
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care :
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
It was summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads and little maidens;
Taught the motto of the “ Dunce's Stool," The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Its grave import still my fancy ladens, The exalted portion of the pain
“Here's a fool !” And power of love, I cannot share,
It was summer, and we went to school.
When the stranger seemed to mark our play, But 't is not here, – it is not here,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started
Would not stay
When the stranger seemed to mark our play. The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece about us see ;
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell, The Spartan borne upon his shield
0, to me her name was always Heaven ! Was not more free.
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Awake! not Greece, - she is awake !
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
' Angel,” said, he sadly, “I am old ; Tread those reviving passions down,
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow;
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told.” Unworthy manhood ! unto thee,
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled !
· Angel,” said he sadly, “I am old. If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ?
“I have tottered here to look once more The land of honorable death Is here, - up to the field, and give
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted Seek out — less often sought than found –
To the core :
I have tottered here to look once more.
“All the picture now to me how dear !
E'en this gray old rock where I am seated,