POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2143, 7 January 1881, Page 3

POETRY.

THE ARCHBISHOP AND GIL BLAS. By Olivee Wendell Holmes, in tee " Atlantic.” I don’t think I feel much older ; I’m aware I’m rather grey, But so are many young folks ; I meet ’em every day. I confess I'm more particular in what I eat and drink, But one’s taste improves with culture 5 that is all it means, I think. "Can you read as ones you used to ?” Well tho print is eo bad, No young folks’ eyes can read it like the books that once we had. " Are you quite as quick of hearing ?” Please to say that once again. " Don’t I nso plain words, your Reverence ?” Yes, I often use a cane. But it’s not because I need it—no, I always liked a slick; And as one might lean upon it, ’tie as well it should be thick. Oh, I’m smart, I’m spry, I’m lively—l can walk, yes, that I can, On the days I feel like walking, just as well as you, young man! " Don’t you get a little sleepy after dinner every day ?” Well, I doze a little sometimes, but that always was my way. “Don’t you cry a little easier than some twenty years ago.” Well, my heart is very tender, but 1 think ’twas always so. “ Don’t you find it sometimes happens that you can’t recall a name ?” Yes—l know such lots of people, but my memory’s not to blame. What! You think my memory’s failing. Why, it’s just as bright and clear, I remember my great grandma ! She’s been dead these sixty year! "Is your voice a little trembly?” Well, it may be now and then, But I write as well as ever with a good oldfashioned pen: It’s the Gillotts make tho trouble—not at all my finger-ends— That is why my band looks shaky when I sign for dividends. “ Don’t you stoop a little, walking ?” It’s a way I’ve always had— I have always been round-shouldered ever since 1 was a lad. “Don’t you hate to tie your shoe-strings P” Yes, I own it—that is true, “ Don’t you tell old stories over ?” lam not aware 1 do. “ Don’t you stay at home of evening ? Don’t you love a cushioned seat In a corner by the fireside, with your slippers on your feet P Don’t you wear warm, fleecy flannels ? Don’t you muffle up your throat ? Don’t you like to have one help yon when you’re putting on your coat ? " Don’t you like old books'you've dogs-eared, you can’t remember when ? Don’t you call it late at nine o’clock and go to bed at ten ? How many cronies can you count, of all you used to know, That called you by your Christian name some fifty years ago ? “ How look the prizes to yon that used to fire your brain P You’ve reared your mound—how high is it above the level plain ? You’ve drained the brimming golden cup that made your fancy reel, You’ve slept tho giddy potion off—now tell us how you feel I “You’ve watched the harvest ripening till every stem was cropped, You’ve seen the rose of beauty fade till every petal dropped, You’ve told your thought, you’ve done your task, you’ve tracked your dial round.” —I backing down! Thank Heaven, not yet! I’m bale and brisk and sound. And good for many a tussle, as you shall live to see ; My shoes are not quite ready yet—don’t think you’re rid of me! Old Parr was in his lusty prime when he was older far, And where will you bo if I live to beat old Thomas Parr ? " Ah, well—l know—at every age life has a certain charm— You’re going ? Come, permit me, please, I beg you’ll take my arm,” I take your arm ! Why take your arm ? I’d thank you to be told, I’m old enough to walk alone, but not so very old!