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19

THE CHEERFUL AGE.

More wrinkles score my brow than frowns,
Uncheck'd my merry vein,
For age, that gives us balder crowns,
Makes ripe the under brain.
Of something yet they rob us still
These years that make us wise,
For maids grow fair as then they were,
But we look with other eyes.
And what was music to our youth
Is discord to our age:
The songs we loved as vivid truth
Are tinsell'd verbiage.

20

We cannot mend the race of things
That jostles towards solution:
'Twill see us out thro' falls and springs,
One stride more near conclusion.
There's sorrow if we earth it out,
But ease if we prefer it.
Then leave the thorn and pluck the rose,
And next thy bosom wear it.
O'er leagues of coast the rough foam flings:
There still are quiet havens;
If o'er our head one sky-lark sings
We heed not twenty ravens.
This world is in a slippery state,
And men are fools to grumble,
If, like a boy who learns to skate,
They marvel at a tumble.

21

But wisdom this and wisdom that,
And every man her master,
While only hearts of season'd proof
Can weather life's disaster.
Can find youth sped and bid him speed,
Nor question out the reason;
Then cheerly raise the latch to age,
A quest, tho' sour, in season.