Classic Poem

AT SIXTY-FOUR.

Time , that, as he travels past,
Seems sometimes slow and sometimes fast,
Swift as bird, when all looks bright,
Slow as snail, in sorrow's night;
Time, that, with a little span,
Measures out the life of man,
And draws the limit at four-score,
Has brought me now to Sixty-four.

When, with retrospective eye,
Age considers days gone by,
And contrasts the dreams of youth
With the present's sterner truth,
In our outward, inward frame,
Scarcely we appear the same!
Yet the contrast why deplore?
Come it must at Sixty-four.

Fancy, painting all things bright,
Gay Hope, shedding cloudless light,
Sanguine ardour for all good,
In itself scarce understood,
Buoyant spirits, health robust, —
Such, with time, must yield their trust;
And with most their sway is o'er
Ere they come to Sixty-four.

Then the weary Fancy palls;
Sober Truth gay Hope enthrals;
Good — we would aspire to still;
Hopeless seems 'mid so much ill;
Buoyant spirits lose their sway;
Health declines, and must decay;
Till sad hearts sicken at the core,
Reviewing life at Sixty-four.

Yet this should not be the end
Unto which life ought to tend;
Such were but the bud, the bloom,
Of a morn that fear'd no gloom;
Bud and bloom should leave behind
Fruit to feed the immortal mind:
Spirit! count thine inward store;
Hast thou none Sixty-four?

Is the past a barren void?
Hast thou suffer'd, and enjoy'd,
Loathed, and loved, and felt, and thought,
Yet from all hast gather'd nought,
Which, the flower now past and gone,
Thou canst inly feed upon?
Life has taught thee no true lore,
Lacking such at Sixty-four.

Though thy health and strength decline,
Though thy drooping spirits pine
Though full many a friend be fled,
And full many a loved one dead;
Thou art not left all alone,
O'er the past to make thy moan;
But Achor's valley IS a door
Of hope to thee — at Sixty-four.

Friends well-tried, and kindred dear,
Filial love — are left to cheer;
Sweetest memories of the past,
Fondly cherish'd to the last;
Hopes that soar, and thoughts that climb
Far beyond the verge of time;
Healing influence round thee pour,
And call for THANKS ! — at Sixty-four.

Weariness will follow those
Who touch upon their journey's close;
But as the sun, though setting, burns
Still brightly, and to glory turns
The very clouds that round him roll;
So, even so, do thou, my soul,
With in-born radiance more and more,
Illume the shades of Sixty-four.

Nay, let a yet Diviner power
Glorify thy latter hour:
Too long faithless and forlorn,
Earthly image thou hast borne;
Now that heavenly impress seek,
Which, when flesh is frail and weak,
Gives the soul new power to soar,
Eagle-wing'd — at Sixty-four.