YOUTH took one summer day his lyre,
And idly struck each golden wire;
Just as fancy bade him play
Rose and sank the flowing lay;
Time and place he cared not for,
Yet his wand'ring hand had more
That music of her votary asks
That the student's artful tasks.
Sweet notes came out, and hung around
Like a cloud of precious sound,
Blending frolic tones, whose mirth
Seem'd all that there is gay on earth,
With some the very heart would melt
Of those who fear'd, or loved, or felt.
While thus he play'd, a form pass'd by,
With aiding staff, and calm, cold eye;
And stopp'd to hear his fingers bring
Such music from his careless string.

'Grey Age,' cried Youth, and smil'd, and stay'd
The hand that on the lyre was laid;
'Delayest thou to hear one twine
Such an idle tune as mine?'
'Aye, fair Youth,' replied the Sage;
'Many a fond ear there may be;
But be sure there's none like Age,
'Kind, and fond, and friend to thee.'
'Nay, dost thou say so?' Youth replied:
'Then shall a worthier strain be tried;
I'll give my wandering notes a rule,
And tame my idle melody;
My musings what grave theme shall school?
Kind, grey Age, I'll sing of thee.'
He changed his key; a graver one,
A slower time was now begun;
Yet ever through the measure press'd
The accents of his frolic breast;
And though the theme was Age, in sooth,
The singer and the song were Youth.
'Thou anch'rest in the port of life,
The storm is brav'd, the sea behind;
And rescued from its oft-proved strife,
List'nest the raging of the wind.
I have loos'd my summer bark;
Sky, and sea, and earth look fair;
Yet they say 'twill all be dark,
Ere I too am anchor'd there.

Is it so? Within my breast
There's such a flood and pulse of glee,
That let Misfortune do her best,
Methinks there must be Joy for me.
But thou through Joy and Grief hast moved,--
What I am proving thou hast proved.
Hope says to me, the Storms that lower
Will break before my bright Sun's power;
Or if I dread to meet the gloom,
She tells me it will never come.--
Thou needest not Hope's guiding eye,
For come what will thy strength is ready:
My spread sail trusts the summer sky,
But thine is furl'd, thy anchor steady.
Oh Age! thou hast forgot how sweet
'Tis to believe all things are true;
To think each wish its aim will meet,
And mid-day keep morn's lovely hue.
Yet know I, thou wouldst not resume,
E'en if thou couldst, that feeling's bloom.
No, Age, again thou wouldst not be
A light, unthinking thing, like me.
Full many a deep enjoyment cheers
The gather'd number of thy years;
Good deeds around thee shed a light,
And spirit strengthen'd in the fight;
And calm, wide views of things that seem
To me like some mysterious dream.

Then, too, thy lighted hearth around,
Are steady friends by proved ties bound;
And all that love thee now must be
Still loved through wide eternity.
But oh! there's many a broken tie
Will mark my oft-united way;
I see full many a changing eye,
And I--I love as light as they.

'But Age! he speaks no truth who says
That mine are all life's sunny rays;
Thou its high mountains steep upon,
Above the clime of flowers art gone,
Yet day-beams gild that head of thine,
That reach not these brown locks of mine;
Beams of another day, that lie
For me beyond full many a sorrow;
While thou above them, stand'st on high,
Beholding now the kindling morrow.
Ah! tell me of that new-born light,
Those purer scenes that round thee rise;
And how, if Grief must cloud delight,
To make it lead me to the skies.
And I will breathe upon thine ear
Tones of the wild unburthen'd glee,
Which thou wilt love e'en yet to hear,
For once such tones belong'd to thee:
Yes, Age--the life of each we'll make
The sweeter in that both partake.'