Still, with, some deep, remote design in view,
Plodding, yet wanting ardour to pursue;
Still finding fault with every fretful breath,
Yet hating innovation worse than death;
In arts unwieldy, but too proud to learn,
In trifles serious, and in frolic stern;
In love, what glances—at a manor ground!
What sighs and wishes—for a thousand pound '
But sure the stream of life must sweeter stray,
The nearer to the source its waters play.
Besides, there's such a raciness in youth,
Such touches too of innocence and truth,
We love the things, how full soe'er they be
Of all their noisy pranks, and frivolous glee.
If they require our tight, experienced rein,
Our grosser vices they in turn restrain.
From youth the profligate their sins conceal,
And feign that virtue which they cannot feel.
Before his son, what father is profane?
What parent dares a filial ear to stain?
Who does not check his conduct and his tongue,
In reverence for the yet untainted young?
Oh yes! in tender age, a holy charm
Breathes forth, and half-protects itself from harm.
Bereft of youth, and to mid age confined,
The life of life were ravished from mankind.
The same dull round of habits would prevail,
Vice wax inveterate, folly would grow stale,
And this fair scene of active bliss become
A long, dark fit of hypochondriac gloom.
Thus youth's and manhood's fierce extremes contend,
With wholesome clash, each other's faults to mend;
Waging a kind of elemental strife,
They raise and purify the tone of life;
The light and shade, that fix its colours true,
The sour and sweet, that gave it all its goût.
But shall old age escape unnoticed here?
That sacred era, to reflection dear,
That peaceful shore, where passion dies away,
Like the last wave that ripples o'er the bay?
Hail, holy Age! preluding heavenly rest,
Why art thou deemed by erring fools unblest?
Some dread, some pity, some contemn thy state—
Yet all desire to reach thy lengthened date;
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