The poetical works of John Nicholson ... Carefully edited from the original editions, with additional notes and a sketch of his life and writings. By W. G. Hird |
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ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE. |
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 | The poetical works of John Nicholson |  |
192
ON VISITING A WORKHOUSE.
Allowed to walk into the sad retreat
Where tott'ring age and foolish fair ones meet,
I heard deep sighs from those bent down with years,
Whose cheeks were deeply furrowed o'er with cares.
To see their locks, by ruthless Time turned grey,
Melted my heart, and took my pride away:
For who was seated in the corner chair,
But one who in my youth I held most dear.
Oft had his hand, when I was but a boy,
Handled the knife and made me many a toy;
For me he caught the sparrows on the snow,
And made my youthful heart with raptures glow!
Oft had I danced around him with delight,
While he had balanced well my little kite:
But now, my aged friend, when he should eat,
His palsied hands can scarcely bear his meat,—
His pleasures lost, to life he's but a slave,
And only waits his passport to the grave.
Here I beheld how mortals waste away,
Shoot up to manhood, blossom, and decay!
Where tott'ring age and foolish fair ones meet,
I heard deep sighs from those bent down with years,
Whose cheeks were deeply furrowed o'er with cares.
To see their locks, by ruthless Time turned grey,
Melted my heart, and took my pride away:
For who was seated in the corner chair,
But one who in my youth I held most dear.
Oft had his hand, when I was but a boy,
Handled the knife and made me many a toy;
For me he caught the sparrows on the snow,
And made my youthful heart with raptures glow!
Oft had I danced around him with delight,
While he had balanced well my little kite:
But now, my aged friend, when he should eat,
His palsied hands can scarcely bear his meat,—
His pleasures lost, to life he's but a slave,
And only waits his passport to the grave.
Here I beheld how mortals waste away,
Shoot up to manhood, blossom, and decay!
In woolsey gown, close seated by his side,
His sister Ann, of Harewood once the pride,
Beauteous and fair,—upon her bridal day
The wealthy countess scarce appeared more gay;
But the fine brow that bore the glossy hair,
Which once she dressed with such assiduous care,
Was furrowed o'er by Time's all-changing plough,
And her few locks were nearly white as snow.
When I had stood a while, and dried the tear,
I spoke, but John my words could scarcely hear;
At length he cried, in exclamation strong,
“Ay! is that thee?” for still he knew my tongue.
His age-dimmed eyes then brightened with a ray,
Which like a wasted taper died away.
Dotage had seized upon his feeble brain,
As he revolved to infancy again.
A while he spoke of heav'n and things divine,
Then laughed—and stopped a moment to repine;
Wished for the grave,—next talked of things to come,
Then wept—and thought of his once happy home,
But his poor heart was most of all subdued
With daughters' pride, and sons' ingratitude.
“Alas!” said he, “that those who owe me all,
“Should know me thus, and yet refuse to call
“To spend one hour, to mitigate my grief,
“To bring one cordial, or afford relief.
“Though they neglect a father, old and poor,
“They yet may have to enter at this door;
“Yet oh, avert it, Heav'n! blessed may they live;
“Oh teach an injured father to forgive!”
Touched with the scene, I turned aside to weep,
And like a child he calmly fell asleep!
His sister Ann, of Harewood once the pride,
Beauteous and fair,—upon her bridal day
The wealthy countess scarce appeared more gay;
193
Which once she dressed with such assiduous care,
Was furrowed o'er by Time's all-changing plough,
And her few locks were nearly white as snow.
When I had stood a while, and dried the tear,
I spoke, but John my words could scarcely hear;
At length he cried, in exclamation strong,
“Ay! is that thee?” for still he knew my tongue.
His age-dimmed eyes then brightened with a ray,
Which like a wasted taper died away.
Dotage had seized upon his feeble brain,
As he revolved to infancy again.
A while he spoke of heav'n and things divine,
Then laughed—and stopped a moment to repine;
Wished for the grave,—next talked of things to come,
Then wept—and thought of his once happy home,
But his poor heart was most of all subdued
With daughters' pride, and sons' ingratitude.
“Alas!” said he, “that those who owe me all,
“Should know me thus, and yet refuse to call
“To spend one hour, to mitigate my grief,
“To bring one cordial, or afford relief.
“Though they neglect a father, old and poor,
“They yet may have to enter at this door;
“Yet oh, avert it, Heav'n! blessed may they live;
“Oh teach an injured father to forgive!”
Touched with the scene, I turned aside to weep,
And like a child he calmly fell asleep!
| The poetical works of John Nicholson | |