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Their happy year spins round. The Youth obeys
A like glad impulse; and so moves the Man
Mid all his apprehensions, cares, and fears,—
Or so he ought to move. Ah! why in age
Do we revert so fondly to the walks
Of Childhood—but that there the Soul discerns
The dear memorial footsteps unimpaired
Of her own native vigour—but for this,
That it is given her thence in age to hear
Reverberations; and a choral song,
Commingling with the incense that ascends
Undaunted, tow'rds the imperishable heavens,
From her own lonely altar?—Do not think
That Good and Wise will ever be allowed,
Though strength decay, to breathe in such estate
As shall divide them wholly from the stir
Of hopeful nature. Rightly is it said
That Man descends into the Vale of years;
Yet have I thought that we might also speak,
And not presumptuously I trust, of Age,
As of a final Eminence, though bare
In aspect and forbidding, yet a Point
On which 'tis not impossible to sit
