Old Age

Oh , how blest are the old, if they bear without spleen
The delights of the gay, and success of the mean!
If, despairing of more, and of good that can last,
They can wait for the sequel, and smile at the past!
If their breast is a calm, which no passions invade;
If their loves are serene, and repose in the shade!
But, above all the rest of their wreath and their joys,
The benevolent mind which their leisure employs,
If they read and reflect—for the learn'd and the wise
Are awake to Distress, are at home to its cries—
Then with wreaths of the Muse and of Genius can play,
Till they fancy themselves are as brilliant as they.
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