Poems (Acton)/The Song of Old Time

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.
Mistrust not your sunshine! 'Twere better that youth
 Should see not the tempest in each passing cloud;
Possess ye faith's shelter to serve ye at need,
 And in storms of Time's bringing ye shall not be bowed.
And ye of earth's children whose tears track my path,
 Whose summer hath passed ere its first fruits were reared,
Whose winter of age hath closed in with despair,
 When there is not left one to the lone heart endeared;
Tis meet ye should welcome with faltering tone
 The stern guest who sojourneth but to destroy.
Perchance hath Time's coming been looked for with hope,
 And his touch but been marked by the blight of your joy;
Yet would ye revile him? In bearing away
 Some loved flow'r from round ye, how oft hath he told
Of a yet fairer garden where still it might bloom,
 And twine round your soul as it twined there of old!
Oh! there is the same golden sunlight for each,
 Though Time may have darkened its lustre ere while;
There breathes not the heart that, 'mid misery's sighs,
 Hath ne'er known the moment illumed by joy's smile.
But thorny life's pathway, or bordered with flowers,
 It leads where earth's pleasures and pains must be o'er;
Age's tottering tread and the light step of youth,
 Are passing there now to return never more!
'Tis a land where love's blossoms ne'er bend to the blight,
 Where they grow for the lonely who find them not here;
Where the cold hand of Time cannot reach to destroy;
 His wing cannot darken its skies ever clear.
Though he planted ye sorrow, in tearing away
 Your loved flow'rs from round ye, forget not he told
Of a yet fairer garden where still they might bloom,
 And twine round your soul as they twined there of old!
R. A.