Republican Herald

WE ARE GROWING OLD.

We are growing old—how the thought will rise
When a glance is backward cast
On some long remembered spot that lies
In the silence of the past:
It may be the shrine of our early vows,
Or the tomb of early tears:
But it seems like a far-off isle to us,
In the stormy sea of years.

Oh! wide and wild are the waves that part
Our steps from its greenness now.
And we miss the joy of many a heart,
And the light of many a brow;
For deep o'er many a stately bark
Have the whelming billows rolled.
That steered with us from that early mark—
Oh, friends! we are growing old!

Old in the dimness of the dust
Of our duty, toils and cares—
Old in the wrecks of love and trust
Which our burdened memory bears
Each form may wear to the passing gaze,
The bloom of life's freshness yet,
And beams may brighten our latter days
Which the morning never met.

But oh! the changes we have seen,
In the far and winding way—
The graves in our path that have grown green,
And the locks that have grown gray!
The winters still on our own may spare
The sable or the gold,
But we see their snow upon brighter hair,
And, friends we are growing old!

We have gained the world's cold wisdom now,
We have learned to pause and fear,
But where are the living founts whose flow
Was a joy of heart to hear?
We have won the wealth of many a clime,
And the lore of many a page.
But where is the hope that saw in time
But its boundless heritage?

Will it come again when the violet wakes,
And the woods their youth renew?
We have stood in the light of sunny brakes,
Where the bloom is deep and blue;
And our souls might joy in the spring time then,
But the joy was faint and cold.
For it never could give us the youth again
Of hearts that are growing old!

From the London Enquirer.