Classic Poem

In youth our hearts are lighted up
With hope's illusive beam,
And earth is an enchanted place,
And life a joyous dream.
There's beauty underneath our feet,
There's music in the air,
There's glory in the heav'ns above,
And rapture ev'rywhere.

But time steals on with noiseless tread,
And tho' the happy boy
May feel a change, 'tis still to him
A change from joy to joy.
Then hopes of high achievements start,
Of great things to be done,
Of undiscovered treasures vast,
Of battles to be won.

The heroes of the present time
Are paltry, poor, and small,—
He will go forth, and he shall be
A hero worth them all.
An' then what dreams of happiness,
What visions rich and rare,
What gorgeous tow'rs and palaces,
What castles in the air!

Then love alights upon his heart,
With all its joys and pains,
His pulse beats madly, and the blood
Is leaping in his veins.
He sees but those love-beaming eyes,
And all beside is dim,—
Oh, she is fair and beautiful!
Worth all the world to him.

He drinks the strange, mysterious draught,
The sweeter for its pain,
And reels delirious with a joy
He'll never taste again;
For time steals on, and oh, how soon
His visions melt away,
And clouds are low'ring in the sky
While yet 'tis noon of day.

And see, he sadly sits at last
With children on his knee,
As he would fain forget his cares
Amid their mirth and glee;
But he must up; for he's the staff
On which the helpless lean,
And he will make their lot in life
More blest than his has been.

And there he sadly struggles on,
A heavy-laden hack;
And oh, how often in the midst
He's tempted to look back!
But time must not be wasted thus
In unavailing tears,
Or want will catch him in the vale,
The gloomy vale of years.

Now, see him bending on his staff;
His locks are thin and grey,
And life, that was so bright before,
Is all a winter's day;
And this new generation's ways
He cannot understand:
So changed is all, he feels himself
A stranger in the land.

And o'er the happy days of youth
He will, he must repine,
For oh, the world is nothing now
To what it was lang syne;
And mem'ry's lamp is waning fast,
With faint and fitful gleam—
The living and the dead are mixed
Like phantoms in a dream.

But childhood's streams are laughing yet,
Its fields are fresh and fair,
And now, a little boy again,
The old man wanders there;
Then, feeble as a little child
Upon its mother's breast,
Resignedly he leans his head
And sinks into his rest.