Memorials of Theophilus Trinal, Student :: :: University of Virginia Library

I've a jest for the evening,
A story, a song;
I laugh when they tell me
I'm rough and I'm strong;
But thoughts of my childhood
When nobody's by,
Like wells in a desert,
Bring tears to my eye.

I've toss'd on the waters,
I've roam'd in the wood,
The force and the cunning
Of foes have withstood:
I've swum in the rapid,
I've hurl'd the harpoon,
Borne the heats of the sun
And the frosts of the moon.

Yet I feel but a baby
Whenever I pass,
And, turning, I see
In the old chimney-glass,
That the round little face
Which used to peep in
Has lines on the brow,
And a beard on the chin.

Where are you, dear mother
Come, look at your child,
Who has fought up to manhood
Through chances so wild.

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Where are you, dear father?
Come round to the door,
Come, bring me the pony—
Come, kiss me once more.

My life is a battle,
I wish it was won!
My life is a labour,
I wish it was done!
I feel but a coward,
Though looking so brave;
I wish I was either
In cradle or grave!

I've nieces and nephews,
A dozen or more;
They've never seen me,
But I've seen them, before;
For, to my eyes, they've all
But come back from the ground
Where Harry and Mary
Are sleeping so sound.

Ah! Time is a robber,
And Death is his sword;
The grave is his den,
And our dear ones his hoard;
He skulks in the darkness,
And counts up his gain,—
So many are dead,
And so many in pain.

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But why am I talking
Such infidel stuff?
I'll be like Old Christmas,
Both tender and rough;
But I will not fear Time,
For if Christ is my Lord,
Time must give up his gains,
And surrender his sword.

Then hail to Old Christmas!
So tender and rough;
His fires and cold weather,
So genial, so bluff:
We'll mingle together—
For such are our years,
Our feasting and worship,
Our fun and our tears.

I'll not be too anxious
For comfort and pelf,
I'll not waste my pity
Too much on myself:
I know that our dear ones
In heaven are stored;
I'll fight my way thither,
I'll follow the Lord.