Old Age.

Waikato Times, Volume XXII, Issue 1797, 12 January 1884, Page 2 (Supplement)

Old Age.

Sat, did you see him ? (For I know him not)— ' A pilgrim stern, implacable as fate, Who strolls this way, they sar. His shambling gait, His gray, thin looks, and burdensome long days, And wrinkled brow he helplessly displays — And terrors those with whom he tries to plot. Some callow youth, whose teens have made him wise, Thinks me this gaffer's follower, I surmiseYet in my heart, I know, I know him not. How came he here-? I call long years of Youth To witness — or, if any years oan tell, Let them — when I came out of youth to dwell : When any Summer's dawn or Spring did rise Whereon I looked not with young, trustful eyes. A part of April's pantheon, I prolong My days amid her symphonies of song ; Still, in green bowered retreats, my pulse unflagging beats, Through new born wonders and auroral skieß, With sharp, bewildering freshness and surprise 1 The budding, tender maid of me is not afraid ; I catch her sunshine as she passes by — The welcome in her eye ; Her rosy cheeks and her immaculate lips Eebuke mo not, nor put me in eclipse — So, never from Youth's chord a tune of my life varies ; When school girls, in sweet flocks, greet me with silken locks, Meet me in field and street, they show me when we meet That young eyes, blue or black, are my contemporaries. This gaffer old and gray — how dare he stroll my way ? His dumb lips at my Bight will grow still dumber ; His gray hairs I disown, which mate not with my own ; Should he appear to-day, I could not him obey — For I am one with Spring and the warm heart of Summer ! May dawns in new decades — her golden morning sets — And still my hand is moist among her violets ; From out the saffron South the sweet breath of her mouth About my forehead plays with balm supernal, Until her life with mine grows steady and eternal. Who saw him pass ? Not I — for still the sky is blue, And still the Summer birds their madrigals are singing. How shall I find you him of whom I never knew When Youth with all his pomp his lap of flowers is bringing ? In meadows ever fair I quaff the morning air, And couriers come to me their wreaths of hope out-flinging. My life still hugs Youth's shore — though years may intervene ; If skies are only blue and fields are ever greea, What nqed have I to mourn for youth departed ? Time still there is to laugh and youthful joy to quaff, To frolic through fair days and he happy hearted.

— Joel Benton, in The Century.