 | Song and Story |  |
161
THE OLD BEAU.
How cracked and poor his laughter rings!
How dulled his eye, once flashing warm!
But still a courtly pathos clings
About his bent and withered form.
How dulled his eye, once flashing warm!
But still a courtly pathos clings
About his bent and withered form.
To-night, where mirth with music dwells,
His wrinkled cheek, his locks of snow
Gleam near the grandsons of the belles
He smiled on forty years ago!
His wrinkled cheek, his locks of snow
Gleam near the grandsons of the belles
He smiled on forty years ago!
We watch him here, and half believe
Our gaze may witness, while he prates,
Death, like a footman, touch his sleeve
And tell him that the carriage waits.
Our gaze may witness, while he prates,
Death, like a footman, touch his sleeve
And tell him that the carriage waits.
| Song and Story | |