"Why weep ye then for him, who, having won While the soft memory of his virtues, yet, Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set? "His youth was innocent; his riper age Marked with some act of goodness every day; And watched by eyes that loved him, calm, and sage, Cheerful he gave his being up, and went To share the holy rest that waits a life well spent. That life was happy; every day he gave For a sick fancy made him not her slave, No chronic tortures racked his aged limb, For luxury and sloth had nourished none for him. "And I am glad that he has lived thus long, And glad that he has gone to his reward; Nor can I deem that nature did him Softly to disengage the vital cord. wrong, For when his hand grew palsied, and his eye Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die." THE RIVULET. THIS little rill, that from the springs Of yonder grove its current brings, Plays on the slope a while, and then Goes prattling into groves again, Oft to its warbling waters drew My little feet, when life was new. When woods in early green were dressed, And from the chambers of the west The warmer breezes, travelling out, Breathed the new scent of flowers about, My truant steps from home would stray, Upon its grassy side to play, List the brown thrasher's vernal hymn, And crop the violet on its brim, With blooming cheek and open brow, As young and gay, sweet rill, as thou. And when the days of boyhood came, And I had grown in love with fame, Duly I sought thy banks, and tried Years change thee not. Upon yon hill The tall old maples, verdant still, Yet tell, in grandeur of decay, How swift the years have passed away, Since first, a child, and half afraid, I wandered in the forest shade. Thou ever joyous rivulet, Dost dimple, leap, and prattle yet; The windings of thy silver wave, The violet there, in soft May dew, Floats the scarce-rooted watercress: Thou changest not-but I am changed, Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged; And the grave stranger, come to see The play-place of his infancy, Has scarce a single trace of him Who sported once upon thy brim. The visions of my youth are past— Too bright, too beautiful to last. I've tried the world-it wears no more The colouring of romance it wore. Yet well has Nature kept the truth She promised to my earliest youth. A few brief years shall pass away, And I, all trembling, weak, and gray, Bowed to the earth, which waits to fold And I shall sleep-and on thy side, As ages after ages glide, Children their early sports shall try, But thou, unchanged from year to year, And, singing down thy narrow glen, Shalt mock the fading race of men. |