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Love will not clip him,
Maids will not lip him, Maud and Marian pass him by ;
Youth it is sunny,
Age has no honey, What can an old man do but die ?
June it was jolly,
O for its folly! A dancing leg and a laughing eye !
Youth may be silly,
Wisdom is chilly, — What can an old man do but die ?
Friends they are scanty,
Beggars are plenty,
Gold 's in his clutches,
(Buying him crutches !)What can an old man do but die ?
But now he walks the streets,
So forlorn ;
“They are gone."
In their bloom ;
On the tomb.
Long ago -
In the snow.
Like a staff;
In his laugh.
At him here,
WHEN SHALL WE ALL MEET AGAIN ?
WHEN shall we all meet again ?
Though in distant lands we sigh, Parched beneath a hostile sky;
But the old three-cornered hat, And the breeches, — and all that,
Are so queer!
There is not a blade will grow, boys, 'T is eropped out, I trow, boys, And Tommy's dead.
And if I should live to be
In the spring,
OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.
Send the colt to fair, boys,
THE APPROACH OF AGE.
FROM "TALES OF THE HALL." Six years had passed, and forty ere the six, When Time began to play his usual tricks : The locks once comely in a virgin's sight, Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching
white; The blood, once fervid, now to cool began, And Time's strong pressure to subdue the man. I rode or walked as I was wont before, But now the bounding spirit was no more; A moderate pace would now my body heat, ' A walk of moderate length distress my feet. I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime, But said, “The view is poor, we need not climb." At a friend's mansion I began to dread The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed ; At home I felt a more decided taste, And must have all things in my order placed. I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less, – My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.. I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute Was disappointed that I did not shoot. My morning walks I now could bear to lose, And blessed the shower that gave me not to
choose. In fact, I felt a languor stealing on; The active arm, the agile hand, were gone; Small daily actions into habits grew, And new dislike to forms and fashions new. I loved my trees in order to dispose ; I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose ; Told the same story oft, - in short, began to prose.
Move my chair on the floor, boys,
There's something not right, boys,
TOMMY'S DEAD. You may give over plough, boys, Vou may take the gear to the stead, All the sweat o' your brow, boys, Will never get beer and bread. The seed's waste, I know, boys,
Time shall make the bushes green;
Time dissolve the winter snow;
LUIS DE CAMOENS (Portuguese). Translation
Yet now despair itself is mild
of LORD STRANGFORD.
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
By the wayside, on a mossy stone,
All the landscape, like a page, perusing ;
By the wayside, on a mossy stone. BYRON'S LATEST VERSES. (Missolonghi, January 23, 1824. On this day I completed my
| Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat ; thirty-sixth year.)
Coat as ancient as the form 't was folding; 'T is time this heart should be unmoved, Silver buttons, queue, and crimped cravat; Since others it has ceased to move ;
Oaken staff his feeble hand upholding ;
There he sat !
Buckled knee and shoe, and broad-brimmed hat. My days are in the yellow leaf,
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there, The flowers and fruits of love are gone,
No one sympathizing, no one heeding,
None to love him for his thin gray hair,
And the furrows all so mutely pleading
Age and care :
Seemed it pitiful he should sit there.
It was summer, and we went to school,
Dapper country lads and little maidens;
Taught the motto of the “Dunce's Stool," — The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
Its grave import still my fancy ladens, The exalted portion of the pain
“Here's a fool !” And power of love, I cannot share,
It was summer, and we went to school.
When the stranger seemed to mark our play, But 't is not here, - it is not here,
Some of us were joyous, some sad-hearted,
Oftentimes the tears unbidden started
Would not stay
When the stranger seemed to mark our play. Glory and Greece about us see ;
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell,
O, to me her name was always Heaven !
She besought him all his grief to tell,
(I was then thirteen, and she eleven,) Awake! not Greece, - she is awake !
One sweet spirit broke the silent spell.
“Angel," said, he sadly, “I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow; Tread those reviving passions down,
Yet, why I sit here thou shalt be told.”. Unworthy manhood ! unto thee,
Then his eye betrayed a pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled !
“Angel," said he sadly, “I am old. If thou regrett'st thy youth, — why live ?
“I have tottered here to look once more The land of honorable death
On the pleasant scene where I delighted
In the careless, happy days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the core : A soldier's grave, for thee the best ;
I have tottered here to look once more. Then look around, and choose thy ground,
“All the picture now to me how dear! And take thy rest!
I E'en this gray old rock where I am seated,