Without regret, I can resign
The vanities that once were mine.
Come, Age, thy welcome visit make,
I know the journey I must take.
Come, Age, with me a season stay,
Then see me friendly on my way.
I hail thy steps with bosom free,
No terrors dost thou bring to me.
For precious gifts thou canst impart,
The thinking head, the tranquil heart,
For moral truth, 'tis thine, to change
The dreams of Youth, that widely range.
When youthful sunshine fills the skies,
The morning mists of passion rise ;-
Unbridled Love, Ambition vain,
And hot Revenge, and fell Disdain,
Unbounded Hope, and fond Belief,
Intemp'rate Joy, and causeless Grief,
That ravish from the dazzled sight
The heav'nly forms of fair and right.
Illusions, bred of air and heat,
In Youth abound, in Age retreat.
Then, Evening blunts the noon-tide ray,
And all the phantoms melt away.
We then imbibe a cooler sky;
We feel the thirst of Pleasure fly.
The thousand hopeless vain pursuits,
The plants that teem with bitter fruits,
When the fierce noon-tide glare is fled,
Decline, and hang the withering head.
Come, Age, with influence kind inspire
The mild retreating of Desire.
Declining Strength, and failing Sight,
Augmented Pain, abridg'd Delight,
These have no terror, Age, for me;
They come to set the spirit free.
Come, welcome Age, but do not bring
The train, that aged bosoms wring;
The narrow thoughts, the carking cares,
That bring contempt on hoary hairs;
The spleen morose, the lust of gold,
Suspicions base, that haunt the Old,
And Fear, with selfish tremors pale,
And Vanity, with twice-told tale.-
O well I know, that in thy train
Full oft attend the forms of pain.
Diseases fell, an hideous band,
That round the King of Terrors stand;
While, breaking down our prison walls
The hand of Sickness heavy falls.
Spare them and let me wear away,
With unperceived and mild decay.
Let me not know the pang, that rends
An aged Mourner from his friends:
Nor, yet, on Nature's pledges dear,
Untimely ravish'd shed the tear.
Nor tempt me, with myself at strife,
To curse the sluggish dregs of life.
Oh! when th' accomplish'd and the brave,
When Youth and Beauty seek the grave;
Who this unmov'd can hear and see?-
Then, hast thou terrors, Age, for me.
Yet, Age can boast peculiar charms,
When, sinking in our childrens' arms,
By thousand fond attentions sooth'd,
We find the downward path so smooth'd,
That, scarcely conscious where they lead,
On flowrets to the grave we tread!
The calm delights of social hours,
When ev'ry mind expands it's pow'rs,
The private duty, moral tie,
What pleasures they to Age supply!-
Beyond what Youth and Health bestow,
The wild excess, the vagrant glow.
Who can describe the pure delight,
When childrens' children glad the sight?
What transport for our Age is stor❜d,
When tender olives grace the board!
Each look benign, each accent kind,
Each act that speaks expanding mind,
Each prelude of some manly part,-
Heav'ns, how they thrill the parent's heart!
Kind Age, all these attend on thee,
And, sure, no terrors bring to me.
From me while youthful spirits post,
They are but lent, not wholly lost:
I see them, in my children live,
New pleasure, thus return'd, they give,
I mingle with the joyous train,
And, in their sports, am young again.
Around my knees they fondly croud,
With hearts elate, and gaily loud;
Nor meet a word, or look severe,
To mingle filial love with fear.
If such delights reside with thee,
Thou hast no terrors, Age, for me.
Come, wearied Nature's sure repose,
Our noisy drama's peaceful close,-
The hope of better life expands,
I hail the glimpse of distant lands.—
Away with sorrow, pain, and strife,
And all that can embitter life!-
With life they come, with life they end.
At thy approach, thou common friend,
Fled are the forms, that broke our sleep,
And bade us wake to sigh and weep.
Thy gentle shaking of the frame
To slumber lulls the vital flame;
Till, like an infant sooth'd to rest,
We sink upon the MAKER'S breast.
THO' in the festive circle, gay,
You see me move in frolic measure;
Mark on my cheek, in purple play,
The bloom of youth and smile of pleasure;
Ah! think not I am free from care.
But think how hard it is to cover With smiles the anguish of despair, And pity an unhappy lover.
The Spinsters, and the Knitters in the sun,
And the free maids that weave their thread with bones,
Do use to chaunt it.
SHAKSPEARE'S TWELFTH NIGHT.
KEEN, the winds of November swept over the wold,
And stripp'd the dry leaves from the grove;
When Mabel, regardless of danger, or cold,
Softly stole from her cot, when the Curfew-bell toll'd;
Mutual vows to exchange with her love.
From the ivy-clad Abbey the screech owl's shrill cry
Fill'd each pause of the deep-swelling blast;
Blue tapers funereal * pale gleam'd on her eye,
And meteors portentous shot thro' the dark sky,
As on to the Church-yard she pass'd.
Long ere she approach'd it, a form cross'd her way
In the garb of a Pilgrim array'd;
(Though dimly descried by the moon's clouded ray) Who thus, in low accents, well skill'd to betray, Accosted the credulous maid.
* Corpse Candles, a vulgar tradition in Wales.
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