Classic Poem

VII

" I am not as they, Old Man!
Bright and cold as they,
Seasons passed of yesterday:
Whose brief life was as a span;
Who, as shadow-like they ran,
Shed on you the beautiful,
Seen ere sunk in time's decay.
I, too, own, alas! his rule:
But my mind can him subdue;
For this body holds a soul
That yields not to his control;
And this harp is as a spirit,
That its life to you can give,
A new birthright to inherit
From time, when you cease to live.
For I come not, Old Man! hither
To forsake you; joys you gave
To my heart that cannot wither.
Whose bright cradle is the grave!
So to you allegiance due
In your last hour I renew;
For this ardent heart, subdued
By the cold world till it takes
From its mould the pride it makes;
That with giant strength repels
Scorn for scorn, from the deep source
Of the self-respect that swells
The fixed will with innate force;
In its holier calmer mood,
Is a fount of gratitude
And of love I pour to you.

VIII

" Time, alas! your forehead sears,
And your locks are thinned and grey;
You must join the thousand Years
That have fled to yesterday!
For old Winter , whom you love not,
Brings you age, his cold benumbs;
Your limbs, once elastic, move not:
And the hour appointed comes
When you must be seen no more.
Even now beside your door
Christmas passed with joyous heart,
On toward the New Year hieing
That old reveller as of yore!
Well he knew that you were lying
Here untended and apart,
That you could not strength renew;
But he looked not in on you,
Old Man, he looked not on you!
Nodding with gold cap and tassel,
With devices quaint and rare,
To a new thing sworn the vassal,
He passed by with courtier's air,
Measured step and debonair;
In his hand the bowl of wassail,
And the mistletoe he bare,
Not for you, but for your heir;
For the truth I needs must tell,
The old clock hath tolled eleven,
Its next stroke must sound your knell,
Unstayed or by earth or heaven!
Then farewell, Old Man! and blessing
Mine be with you ere you go!
While I speak your cheek confessing
Greater change, the truth doth show;
For your chin is sharper grown,
And your brow the dial-plate
Shadowing time to you unknown;
Hours for which you cannot wait.