University of Virginia Library

Youth's fires are quenched, and manhood's toils are o'er;
The days of early hope, the older years
Of disappointment, all have run their course,
And hope and disappointment here below
Are mine no more. From morn to noon, my life
Has rolled its brightening and its cloudy way,
And noon begins to wane. The Spring has seen
Her garlands blush and wither on my brow;—
The Summer wheeled her burning suns abroad,
And I have toiled beneath their ripening blaze.
Now, welcome to my faint and weary limbs
Autumn's cool breath, and sober bowers of rest.
I long to sit in their refreshing shade,
And bare my whitening tresses to the wind,
And pluck th' o'erhanging fruit, and yield my mind
To pensive musing. Come, advancing age—
I bid thee welcome with thy reverend brow,
And mien of bland composure. Come, and lay
Thy hand benignant on my aching head;
Pour thy tranquillity upon my heart;
And let thy soothing calm, thy thoughtful peace,
Thy wise and venerable cheerfulness,
Hush down the stormy elements of strife,
And rock my harassed being to repose.

There are who paint thee hideous—eyes of rheum,
And ears that catch no sound—bones full of pain—
The day a burden—night one weary watch—
The temper soured—the heart's sweet fountains dried—
Mind dull and prejudiced—this curious frame,
This matchless instrument of sense and soul,
Turned to a rack of torture—and this life,
Once of itself enjoyment, made a curse.

O, come not in this fearful guise to me!
This garb of living death—nor lengthen out
The useless hours of this poor tortured clay
To pine in stupid dotage—to annoy,
With its encumbering helplessness, the path
Of those who love me, and to be a mark
For gaze and insult to th' unfeeling crowd,
That mock at human weakness. More than all,
Spare, spare the mind! from touch of fell decay
O keep the spirit free! nor let a frost
Fall on the heart's affections, to congeal
Its generous blood. 'Tis sad, 'tis horrible,
When the frail, tottering, shrivelled form of age
Shakes with its petty passions, and degrades
Its sacred hairs,
And dull fatuity, with garrulous tongue,
Prates from the lips which should be wisdom's throne.
'Tis horrible to see the great mind bowed,
The spark ethereal quenched, thought, feeling, heart,
And all that makes man honored, loved, revered,
Sunk in the baby idiocy of years
Without revival. Then, if length of days
Must bring such degradation, be their flight
In mercy stayed, is still my earnest prayer.
I would not see the day when I might wish
My friend or father dead—when friend or child
Might wish me so. O, when in good ripe age
A sharp disease would summon us away,
Let not too fond affection interpose,
Compelling us to stay. Better depart
While we can go lamented, ere the hands
Of those that love are weary of their charge,
And o'er our tomb no voice exclaims, “O, friend
Too early lost!” I saw an old man once
Laid on a couch from which there seemed no hope
That he should rise. He had been one of those
Whom all men honor, and whom friends revere.
Years had not dimmed his mind, and his warm heart
Glowed with youth's generous fires and faithful loves.
Disease had changed him not. The placid brow,
Furrowed by time, yet speaking cheerful things,
The mild, sweet smile, the serious, playful eye,
Adorned his bed, as they had decked his health;
While quiet words of love to friends below,
And trust in Him above, flowed forth from lips
Accustomed to their utterance. Ripe he seemed
For Heaven's immortal garner; and if then
He had been gathered by God's reaper in,
Admiring, weeping crowds had led him home,
And made his tomb a shrine of pilgrimage.
But wife, friends, children, day and night, with tears
And cries that would not be refused, desired
That he might live. They knew not what they asked,
Blind through excess of love. The answer came,
Fraught with rebuke and wisdom. He was spared.
His flesh came to him like a child's; his frame
Once more grew strong; but back to infancy
His doting mind returned—he lived a babe—
Sense, memory, knowledge, all deserted him,
And left him but a blank, an idiot blank,
To be watched, tended, chidden, like a child;
Till those who had refused to set him free,
Because they loved him fondly, lived to mourn
His wearily-protracted days, and wish
That Death would strike and rid them of their charge.
[OMITTED]

But thou, most ancient and majestic elm,
Whose ample arms my childish sports o'erspread,
Whose long familiar shades, with grateful gloom,
Are still so welcome to my fevered brow,
Thou—in thy vigorous and brawny form—
Hoary, yet cheerful—gently touched by time,
Not broken—tellest of a kindlier age—
With what a stately grace thy massive trunk
Bears up its burden of a hundred years!
With just enough decay upon its boughs
To lend a graceful sadness to its strength.
In form like this, I woo the slow advance
Of long-protracted life—protracted not
Too long.—Such be its deep tranquillity,
Its cheerful vigor, dignity, and grace,
And calm, religious peace, as Bryant sketched,—
Whose tints are beauty, and whose pencil truth,—
Or like the reverend portrait Tully drew.
[OMITTED]

For I have faith that in that distant day—
That bright, enduring day, for which man's soul
Is destined—I shall roam, from light to light,
Through all your orbs, and tread your spotless courts,
Read the long records of your ancient day,
And share your toils and pleasures. Glorious hope!
To spring from this dim planet, wafted on
To brightness after brightness—visitant
And witness of the infinite abodes
Of perfect truth and love—to trace with joy
In all the One Almighty, and to join
The harmonious choirs of heaven, whose glorious song
Rings through the eternal arches evermore—
To sit in converse blessed, not with the saints
Alone on earth illustrious, but with those
The sage and holy of remoter spheres—
The ransomed from all planets—sons of grace
And purity from all the stars—whose eyes
Have never looked, perchance, on sin; whose ears
Have heard, whose hearts conceived no crime;
Whose stainless hands have wrought no task but love's;
Whose voice has uttered only wisdom;—bards
Inspired from founts of highest heaven;
Philosophers, to whom earth's science lies,
When loftiest, infinitely low; whose mind,
Not creeping step by step, like man's, but quick
And piercing, like the light, flashes on truth
And knowledge; and whose love of excellence,
Unsullied by the low desires and tastes
Of earth, is ever active, vigilant, and free.
[OMITTED]

This is my present dream—my last, best dream.
A dream? No—not of that false progeny,
Engendered when the mind has shut its eye
To all things real, and in darkness dwells
With unsubstantial phantoms—not a dream—
A faithful vision, based on promises
Which reason knows substantial, wrought in light
On nature's broadest page, and spoke in words
By the strong utterance of a prophet's voice,
From the tomb ringing. It is Faith that pours
Its radiant flood of glory on my soul,
And lights the future with a steadfast ray
That cannot lead aside. Have I not seen
The very flowers beneath my foot decay
And live? the worm upon the summer bough
Entombed and raised? the forest fade? the field
Lie dead, and Nature in her cold, white shroud—
Yet summoned back to life? and tell me why,
Except as teachers to immortal man.
Have I not heard the marvels of thy name,
Great Prince of Judah? seen the powers of Heaven
Poured lavish on thy head? and by the word
Felt the creation of another life
Burst in upon my mind? and from the cave
Hast thou not risen victorious over death,
To tell misdoubting man that he shall live?
I slept,—but now I wake; my opened eyes
Have dropped their earthly scales, and see how all
This sublunary scene is but a dream.
The sun of Faith reveals realities—
Truth sheds her light—Delusion reigns no more.
[OMITTED]

Not in the city—though the solemn tower
Of ancient and most reverend minster cast
Its holy shadow on the sleeper's bed,
And, with the anthems of its daily choir
And deep-toned worship of its holy bells,
Utter perpetual requiem—works of man,
Though consecrate to Heaven, are human still—
And I would rest my dust with God. No tower
Of mystic grandeur, anthem-peal, or chime
Of sacred bell, can hallow what the foot
Of vulgar crowds, on boisterous toil intent,
Or wealthy pleasure rolling constant by,
Shaking the very tombs, must desecrate.
Even sacred night is sacred there no more;
And weeping love in vain desires the hour
To see the spot where buried friendship lies,
And nourish heavenward thought upon its grave.
Not in the city's churchyard lay me down—
Whose trodden paths lead to no quiet spot
For holy contemplation, and the hour
Of solitary thought, that soothes the soul,
Purges from earth, exalts, and fits for heaven—
But bear me far away from man's domain,
And lay me down in nature's; where, alike
By day or night, the tearful friend may sit
Unnoticed by, and quite forget the world.