"Paul the aged, and now also a prisoner of Jesus Christ."-Philemon 9.
My friend, thou sorrowest for thy golden prime,
For thy fair youthful years, too swift of flight;
Thou musest, with wet eyes, upon the time
Of cheerful hopes that filled the world with light;
Years when thy heart was bold, thy hand was strong,
And prompt thy tongue the generous thought to speak,
And willing faith was thine, and scorn of wrong
Summoned the sudden crimson to thy cheek.
Thou lookest forward on the coming days,
Shuddering to feel their shadow o'er thee creep;
A path, thick set with changes and decays,
Slopes downward to the place of common sleep;
And they who walked with thee in life's first stage,
Leave one by one thy side, and, waiting here,
Thou seest the sad companions of thy age-
Dull love of rest, and weariness, and fear.
Yet grieve thou not, nor think thy youth is gone,
Nor deem that glorious season e'er could die ;
The pleasant youth, a little while withdrawn,
Waits on the horizon of a brighter sky;
Waits like the morn, but folds her wings and hides,
Till the slow stars bring back her dawning hour;
Waits like the vanished spring, that slumbering bides
Her own sweet time to waken bird and flower.
There shall He welcome thee, when thou shalt stand
On His bright morning hills, with smiles more sweet
Than when at first He took thee by the hand,
Through the fair earth to lead thy tender feet;
He shall bring back, but brighter, broader still,
Life's early glory to thine eyes; again
Shall clothe thy spirit with new strength, and fill
Thy leaping heart with warmer love than then.
Hast thou not glimpses, in the twilight here,
Of mountains where immortal morn prevails?
Comes there not, through their silence, to thine ear
A gentle murmur of the morning gales
That sweep th' ambrosial groves of that bright shore,
And thence the fragrance of its blossoms bear,
And voices of the loved ones, gone before,
More musical in that celestial air?
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
IT is not growing like a tree
In bulk, doth make man better be,
Or standing like an oak, three hundred year,
To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere.
A lily of a day is fairer far in May;
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
In small proportions we just beauties see,
And in short measures life may perfect be.
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