 | Stones from The Quarry |  |
249
OLD AGE.
Poor Age! thou like a beggar go'st about,With wallet at thy back, for scrap and dole,
Kind word and look, to cheer thy saddened soul;
Full often met with wounding gibe and flout.
Thy life before thee hangs in fear and doubt,
For thou dost sit with grim Death cheek by jowl,
Still hob-a-nob with him o'er Lethè's bowl:
What Present pours in Past letting run out!
Ay, broken is “the golden bowl;” no more
It holds the wine of Life, but lets it run
To waste, like drunken spilth upon the floor;
'Tis run to Memory's dregs, and well-nigh done.
Age, like a drunken tapster, still doth score
The reckoning, though of wine he draweth none.
| Stones from The Quarry | |