Watchman And Observer

CHANGE.
And this is what is left of youth!
There were two boys, who were bred up together
Shared the same bed, and fed at the same board;
Each tried the other's sport, from the first chase,
Young hunters of the butterfly and bee,
To where they followed the fleet hare, and tried
The swiftness of the bird. They lay beside
The silver trout stream, watching as the sun
Played on the bubbles; shared each in the store
Of either's garden; and together read
Of him, the master of the desert isle,
Till a low hat, a gun and a canoe,
Bounded their wishes. Or if ever came
A thought of future days, 'twas but to say
That they would share each other's lot, and do
Wonders no doubt. But this was vain: they parted
With promises of long remembrance, words
Whose kindness was the heart's, and those warm tears,
Hidden like shame by the young eyes which shed them,
But which are thought upon in after years
As what we would give worlds to shed once more.
They met again—but different from themselves,
At least what each remembered of themselves;
To one, proud as a soldier of his rank,
And of his many battles; the other,
Proud of his Indian wealth, and of his skill
And toil which gathered it; each with a brow
And heart alike darkened by years and care,
They meet with cold words, and yet colder looks:
Each changed in himself, and yet each thought
The other only changed,—himself, the same.
And coldness bred dislike; rivalry
Came like the pestilence o'er some sweet thoughts
That linger yet, healthy and beautiful,
Amid dark and unkindly ones. And they
Whose boyhood had not known one jarring word,
Were strangers in their age; if their eyes met,
'Twas but to look contempt; and when they spoke,
Their speech was wormwood!
How changed! But this, this is life!