Classic Poem

O SAY not so! A bright old age is thine;
Calm as the gentle light of summer eves,
Ere twilight dim her dusky mantle weaves
Because to thee is given, in thy decline,
A heart that does not thanklessly repine
At aught of which the hand of God bereaves,
Yet all He sends with gratitude receives; —
May such a quiet thankful close be mine!
And hence thy fire-side chair appears to me
A peaceful throne — which thou wert form'd to fill;
Thy children, ministers who do thy will;
And those grand-children, sporting round thy knee,
Thy little subjects, looking up to thee
As one who claims their fond allegiance still.