OLD AGE SITS BENT ON HIS IRON-GRAY STEED.
I
Old age sits bent on his iron-gray steed,
Youth rides erect on his courser black;
And little he thinks in his reckless speed,
Old age comes on in the very same track!
Though one seems strong as the forest tree,
The other infirm, and wanting breath;
If ever youth baffles old age, 'twill be
By rushing into the arms of death.
II
And youth will quaff, and youth will feast,
His lagging foe he'll still deride;
Until, when he expects him least,
Old age and he stand side by side.
He then looks into his toilet glass,
And sees old age reflected there;
He cries alas! how quickly pass,
Bright eyes, and bloom, and raven hair.
