POEMS.
123
THE SONG OF OLD TIME.
Old Time is before ye!—is passing away!
He hath cast the dull shade of his wing o'er your brow.
Ye note it not yet, but that shadow hath dimmed
The light of that joy which was beaming ere now!
Do ye look upon age as a far-distant cloud
In your bright sky of life? Do ye deem that the tone,
Falling now like sweet music on listening ears,
Will then bear such silvery accents alone?
Are ye young in earth's sorrows as childish in years?
Have ye ne'er sown your friendship and watched it decay?
'Tis, therefore, ye cry, as I pass from your sight,
"Youth's flowers of hope, Time can ne'er sweep away!"
Smile on while ye may, 'neath the touch which will blight
All too soon those fair flowers ye hold deathless now.
The moment must come when your mirth will have pass'd,
And the heart's bitter care may be traced on the brow.
He hath cast the dull shade of his wing o'er your brow.
Ye note it not yet, but that shadow hath dimmed
The light of that joy which was beaming ere now!
Do ye look upon age as a far-distant cloud
In your bright sky of life? Do ye deem that the tone,
Falling now like sweet music on listening ears,
Will then bear such silvery accents alone?
Are ye young in earth's sorrows as childish in years?
Have ye ne'er sown your friendship and watched it decay?
'Tis, therefore, ye cry, as I pass from your sight,
"Youth's flowers of hope, Time can ne'er sweep away!"
Smile on while ye may, 'neath the touch which will blight
All too soon those fair flowers ye hold deathless now.
The moment must come when your mirth will have pass'd,
And the heart's bitter care may be traced on the brow.
