 | The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith |  |
190
THE OLD MAN.
Old man, gray man, who sittest there
In the shadow of the tree,
The winds at play in thy scattered hair,
What may thy visions be?
Vacant, and lone, and aimless, thou,
God pity thee, thou old man, now.
In the shadow of the tree,
The winds at play in thy scattered hair,
What may thy visions be?
Vacant, and lone, and aimless, thou,
God pity thee, thou old man, now.
There is no sound by the cottage hearth,
To thrill thy heart again,
Thy dull ear greeteth no voice of mirth,
Thine eye may seek in vain
The kindly look of the loving heart;
Too soon do such from the earth depart.
To thrill thy heart again,
Thy dull ear greeteth no voice of mirth,
Thine eye may seek in vain
The kindly look of the loving heart;
Too soon do such from the earth depart.
Thou shakest, old man, thy hoary head,
The flitting past to recall;
Let it fade, let it fade, thy heart is dead,
Why shouldst thou lift the pall?
What is now to thee the bustle and strife,
That lured thee on in thy early life?
The flitting past to recall;
Let it fade, let it fade, thy heart is dead,
Why shouldst thou lift the pall?
What is now to thee the bustle and strife,
That lured thee on in thy early life?
191
Let the record fade—it is naught to thee,
Its mission hath long been o'er,
'T would puzzle thy brain, could these strange things be
Revealed to thy sight once more,
Thou wouldst wonder and ask if this were all,
That kept thy spirit so long in thrall.
Its mission hath long been o'er,
'T would puzzle thy brain, could these strange things be
Revealed to thy sight once more,
Thou wouldst wonder and ask if this were all,
That kept thy spirit so long in thrall.
It is well for thee, that blunted now
Are the pangs that pierced thee through,
The griefs that have blanched thy sunken brow,
Vain hopes thy young heart knew;
'T is a blessed thing, old man, for thee,
That lost is the page of memory.
Are the pangs that pierced thee through,
The griefs that have blanched thy sunken brow,
Vain hopes thy young heart knew;
'T is a blessed thing, old man, for thee,
That lost is the page of memory.
| The poetical writings of Elizabeth Oakes Smith | |