 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
83
THE POOR OLD MAN.
Ah! who is it totters along,
And leans on the top of his stick!
His wrinkles are many and long,
And his beard is grown silver and thick.
No vigour enlivens his frame,
No cheerfulness beams in his eye,
His limbs are enfeebled and lame,
And he seems as if going to die.
And leans on the top of his stick!
His wrinkles are many and long,
And his beard is grown silver and thick.
No vigour enlivens his frame,
No cheerfulness beams in his eye,
His limbs are enfeebled and lame,
And he seems as if going to die.
They tell me he once was as gay
As I, in my merriest mood;
That briskly he carolled away,
With spirits that nothing subdued.
That he clam bered high over the rocks,
To search where the sea-bird had been;
And followed his venturesome flocks,
Up and down on the mountain so green.
As I, in my merriest mood;
That briskly he carolled away,
With spirits that nothing subdued.
That he clam bered high over the rocks,
To search where the sea-bird had been;
And followed his venturesome flocks,
Up and down on the mountain so green.
But now what a change there appears!
How altered his figure and face!
Bent low with a number of years,
How feeble and slow is his pace!
He thought a few winters ago,
Old age was a great while to come;
And it seems but as yesterday now,
That he frolicked in vigour and bloom.
How altered his figure and face!
Bent low with a number of years,
How feeble and slow is his pace!
84
Old age was a great while to come;
And it seems but as yesterday now,
That he frolicked in vigour and bloom.
He thought it was time enough yet,
For death and the grave to prepare,
And seemed all his life to forget
How fast time would carry him there.
He sported in spirits and ease,
And thought it too soon to repent,
Till all in a hurry he sees
The bright opportunity spent.
For death and the grave to prepare,
And seemed all his life to forget
How fast time would carry him there.
He sported in spirits and ease,
And thought it too soon to repent,
Till all in a hurry he sees
The bright opportunity spent.
Now, weak with disorder and years,
And tottering into the dust,
Oh! he would give rivers of tears
To have minded religion at first.
He spends his few sorrowful days,
In wishing his life could return;
But alas! he has wasted the blaze,
And now it no longer will burn.
And tottering into the dust,
Oh! he would give rivers of tears
To have minded religion at first.
He spends his few sorrowful days,
In wishing his life could return;
But alas! he has wasted the blaze,
And now it no longer will burn.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |