A Young Man's Opinion of Age
Bid me not trust her hoary parent's smile!
I cannot; for I read foul falsehoods there.
Oh, Guzman! Pity never wore gray hairs;
But died in 'ts youth!—Trust not a furrowed brow:
For Time digs pits where hate and cunning sleep;
And sixty winter winds can ne'er pass by,
And leave the heart still warm. Age is a grave;
Where Kindness, and quell'd Passion, and mute Love,
Lie, hand in hand, cold,—dead,—perhaps forgotten!
I cannot; for I read foul falsehoods there.
Oh, Guzman! Pity never wore gray hairs;
But died in 'ts youth!—Trust not a furrowed brow:
For Time digs pits where hate and cunning sleep;
And sixty winter winds can ne'er pass by,
And leave the heart still warm. Age is a grave;
Where Kindness, and quell'd Passion, and mute Love,
Lie, hand in hand, cold,—dead,—perhaps forgotten!
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