POEMS. THE AGES. I. WHEN to the common rest that crowns our days, Or full of years, and ripe in wisdom, lays When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, And blights the fairest; when our bitter tears Stream, as the eyes of those that love us close, We think on what they were, with many fears Lest goodness die with them, and leave the coming years. II. And therefore, to our hearts, the days gone by, When lived the honoured sage whose death we wept, And the soft virtues beamed from many an eye, And beat in many a heart that long has slept,Like spots of earth where angel-feet have stepped, Are holy; and high-dreaming bards have told Of times when worth was crowned, and faith was kept, Ere friendship grew a snare, or love waxed coldThose pure and happy times-the golden days of old. III. Peace to the just man's memory; let it grow Areener with years, and blossom through the flight Of ages; let the mimic canvas show His calm benevolent features; let the light Stream on his deeds of love, that shunned the sight Of all but heaven, and in the book of fame, And hold it up to men, and bid them claim IV. But oh, despair not of their fate who rise And trode his brethren down, and felt no awe |