The day is fled, and yet I saw no sun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

The spring is past, and yet it is not sprung;

The fruit is dead, and yet the leaves be green;
My youth is gone, and yet I am but young;
I saw the world, and yet I was not seen;
My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun;
And now I live, and now my life is done!

I sought my death, and found it in my womb;
I looked for life, and saw it was a shade;
I trod the earth, and knew it was my tomb;
And now I die, and now I am but made;
The glass is full, and now my glass is run;
And now I live, and now my life is done!
Chidiock Tichborne [1558?-1586]

TOMORROW

In the down-hill of life, when I find I'm declining,
May my fate no less fortunate be

Than a snug elbow-chair will afford for reclining,
And a cot that o'erlooks the wide sea;

With an ambling pad-pony to pace o'er the lawn,
While I carol away idle sorrow,

And blithe as the lark that each day hails the dawn,
Look forward with hope for Tomorrow.

With a porch at my door, both for shelter and shade too,
As the sunshine or rain may prevail,

And a small spot of ground for the use of the spade too, With a barn for the use of the flail:

A cow for my dairy, a dog for my game,

And a purse when a friend wants to borrow;

I'll envy no Nabob his riches or fame,

Nor what honors may wait him Tomorrow.

From the bleak northern blast may my cot be completely
Secured by a neighboring hill;

And at night may repose steal upon me more sweetly
By the sound of a murmuring rill.

Youth and Age

403

And while peace and plenty I find at my board,
With a heart free from sickness and sorrow,
With my friends may I share what Today may afford,
And let them spread the table Tomorrow.

And when I at last must throw off this frail covering,
Which I've worn for three-score years and ten,

On the brink of the grave I'll not seek to keep hovering,
Nor my thread wish to spin o'er again;

But my face in the glass I'll serenely survey,

And with smiles count each wrinkle and furrow;

And this old worn-out stuff, which is threadbare Today, May become everlasting Tomorrow.

John Collins [1742?-1808]

LATE WISDOM

WE'VE trod the maze of error round,
Long wandering in the winding glade;

And now the torch of truth is found,

It only shows us where we strayed:

By long experience taught, we know—
Can rightly judge of friends and fɔes;
Can all the worth of these allow,

And all the faults discern in those.

Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell
The wildest passions in their rage,
Can their destructive force repel,

And their impetuous wrath assuage.—
Ah, Virtue! dost thou arm when now
This bold rebellious race are fled?
When all these tyrants rest, and thou
Art warring with the mighty dead?
George Crabbe [1754-1832]

YOUTH AND AGE

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding like a bee,-
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy

When I was young!

When I was young?-Ah, woful When!
Ah, for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:-
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,

That fear no spite of wind or tide!

Naught cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in't together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;

Oh! the joys that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty

Ere I was old!

Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
'Tis known that Thou and I were one.
I'll think it but a fond conceit--
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:-
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life's a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:

The Old Man's Comforts

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismissed,
Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

405

Samuel Taylor Coleridge [1772-1834]

THE OLD MAN'S COMFORTS

AND HOW HE GAINED THEM

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks which are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William,- -a hearty old man: Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,
"I remembered that youth would fly fast,

And abused not my health and my vigor at first,
That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone:
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied,

"I remembered that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,

That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:
Now tell me the reason, I pray.”

"I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied;
"Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth, I remembered my God,
And He hath not forgotten my age."

Robert Southey (1774-1843]

TO AGE

WELCOME, old friend! These many years
Have we lived door by door:

The Fates have laid aside their shears
Perhaps for some few more.

I was indocile at an age

When better boys were taught,

But thou at length hast made me sage,
If I am sage in aught.

Little I know from other men,
Too little they from me,

But thou hast pointed well the pen
That writes these lines to thee.

Thanks for expelling Fear and Hope,
One vile, the other vain;
One's scourge, the other's telescope,
I shall not see again:

Rather what lies before my feet

My notice shall engage.-

He who hath braved Youth's dizzy heat

Dreads not the frost of Age.

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864]

LATE LEAVES

THE leaves are falling; so am I;

The few late flowers have moisture in the eye;

So have I too.

Scarcely on any bough is heard

Joyous, or even unjoyous, bird
The whole wood through.

Winter may come: he brings but nigher
His circle (yearly narrowing) to the fire