"Honor thy father and thy mother, that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee."
You think, because I'm fourscore years,
And halt a little in my gait,
My life is one of cares and fears,
And that no blessings on me wait;
You think I sigh for days long past,
When Hope his lamp bright beaming bore,
When all was light, from first to last,
And not a shadow loomed before;
That, 'stead of this young phantom dear,
Lighting my path as on I stray,
The spectres grim of guilt and fear
Are my companions on the way ;
That nothing now to me is left,
But patience to endure the load
Of added years, each one bereft
Of blessings which the last bestowed.
But trust me, friend, it is not so;
Age has of joys its hidden store
As rich as youth can e'er bestow,
Which memory reckons o'er and o'er.
Remember that the withered leaf
Just ere it falls to rise no more,
Discloses, for a period brief,
A brighter tint than ere it wore.
Remember, too, the great command,
Those who their parents honor here,
Shall live long in the promised land,
And revel in its bounteous cheer.
Old age must then a blessing be,
Since 'tis the boon which God doth give To those whose filial piety
Merits the chosen bliss, to live.
What though my head be white as snow,
My forehead ploughed by many a furrow,
My body bent like Indian bow,
And I a stick am fain to borrow?
What though my sight begins to fade,
I still can find my way along,
What though my hearing is decayed,
I still can hear the woodland song.
And though young Fancy's dreams are o'er,
I still can banquet on the past,
And draw from Memory's ample store
As rich a treat as Hope's repast.
As o'er my shoulder, back I peer,
I see no grinning spectres pale,
No scowling imps of guilt or fear,
That dog my steps and snuff the gale.
Some marks there are, I must confess,
Long time chalked up behind the door
Some old offences, more or less,
I wish were rubbed from out the score.
But He who gave his blood for all,
I hope has shed one drop for me,
When He atoned for Adam's fall,
On the high cross of Calvary.
This world is still a cheerful scene,
The sunshine still is clear and bright;
The waving woods and meadows green,
Still give my heart a mild delight.
"Tis like the summer twilight eve;
Though not so bright as morning's ray,
Yet soft and sweet, and hard to leave
As the more gorgeous tints of day.
What though grim Death, with iron hand,
Hath severed many a heart-knit tie,
And many of my kindred band
In yonder churchyard mouldering lie?
still hover near, Nursing, like me, th' expiring flame, Who, though they all new faces wear, Are still in heart and soul the same.
And best of all, a little band
Of noisy imps climb up my knees,
And ramble with me, hand in hand,
Along the brook, among the trees.
Sometimes I see them skipping round
In sprightly or mischievous play,
While in my chair I'm weather-bound,
And cannot join the noisy fray.
I do not envy them their sport,
But turn my face another way,
And think 'tis Age's last resort-
How much more wise I am than they!
The old trunk, though its limbs decay,
Puts forth new shoots from year to year,
And 'neath its shadows, rich and gay,
The grass upsprings, the flowers appear.
Then why should I of age complain?
If 'tis a punishment to prove,
God would not promise it to man
As a reward for filial love.
Content to live, content to die,
I heed not when grim Death appears; But, if 'tis heaven's high will, why, I Don't fear to live a hundred years.
BESIDE the hearth there is an hour of dreaming,
A calm and pensive solitude of soul,
When life and death hath each another seeming,
And thoughts are with us owning no control.
These are the spirits, Memory's revealing,
In deep solemnity they rise and fall,
Shrouding the living present, and concealing
The world around us - Shadows on the Wall.
Hopes, like the leaves and blossoms, rudely shaken
By cruel winds of winter, from the tree
Of our existence; phantoms that awaken
Wild passing gleams of Joy's young ecstasy;
And Love, once kind and tenderly outpouring
Her wine into our souls, we may recall,
And find them dear and ever heavenward soaring,
Though only now as Shadows on the Wall.
Old clasping bands, old friendships and affections,
Once bodied forms beside us on the earth,
Come back to haunt us, ghostly recollections,
With mystic converse by the silent hearth.
Yet these are kindly spirits, and retiring
Draw their long shadows slowly from the wall,
And visit us in peace and gentleness, inspiring
A hope that brings the sunshine after all.
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