The Democratic Pioneer

Poetry.

WHEN I AM OLD.

When I am old—and oh! how soon
Will life's sweet morning yield to noon;
And noon's broad, fervid, earnest light—
Be shrouded in the solemn night;
Till like a story well nigh told,
Will seem my life—when I am old.

When I am old—this breezy Earth
Will lose for me its voice of mirth;—
The streams will have an under tone
Of sadness, not by right their own:
And Spring's sweet power in vain unfold
Its rosy charms—when I am old.

When I am old—I shall not care
To deck with flowers my faded hair;
Twill be no vain desire of mine
In rich and costly dress to shine;
Bright jewels and the brightest gold
Will charm me naught—when I am old.

When I am old—my friends shall be
Old and infirm and bowed like me;
Or else—their bodies neath the sod;
Their spirits dwelling safe with God,—
The old church bell will long have tolled
Above their rest—when I am old.

When I am old—I'd rather bend
Thus sadly o'er each buried friend,
Than see them loose the earnest truth,
That marks the friendship of our youth;
Twill be so sad to see them cold
Or strange to me—when I am old.

When I am old—oh! how it seems
Like the wild lunacy of dreams.
To picture in prophetic rhyme,
That dim, far distant, shadowy time:
So distant that it seems o'er bold
Even to say—'When I am old!'

When I am old—perhaps ere then,
I shall be missed from the haunts of men;
Perhaps my dwelling will be found
Beneath the green and quiet mound;
My name by stranger hands unrolled
Among the dead—ere I am old.

Ere I am old!—that time is now;
For youth sits lightly on my brow;
My limbs are firm and strong and free—
Life has a thousand charms for me—
Charms that will long their influence hold
Within my heart—ere I am old.