The Weekly Lancaster Gazette

Lover Still.—"No longer a lover!" exclaimed an aged patriarch, "Ah! you mistake me if you think age has blotted out my heart." Though these silver hairs fall over a brow all wrinkled, and a cheek all furrowed yet I am a lover still. I love the beauty of the maiden's blush, the soft tint of flowers, the singing of birds, and above all, the silvery ring in the glad laugh of a child. I love the star light meadows where the butter-cups grow with almost the same enthusiasm, as when with my hair flying loose in the wind, and my cap in hand, years ago I chased the painted butterfly.— I love yon aged dame. Look at her. Her face is care-worn, but it has ever held a smile for me. Often have I shared the bitter cup of sorrow with her-and so shared it seemed almost sweet. Years of sickness have stolen the freshness of her life, but, like the faded rose, the perfume of her love is richer than when in the full bloom of youth and maturity. Together, we have placed buds in the pale folded hands of the dead, together, wept over little graves. Through storm and through sunshine we have clung together; and now as she sits there with her knitting her cap quaintly frilled, the old style kerchief crossed, white and brim about the heart that has beat so long, and so truly for me, the dim blue eyes that shrinkingly turn from the glaring sunlight, throwing her a parting adieu, kisses her brow, and leaves on its faint tracery of wrinkles, angelic radiance. I see though no one else can, the bright, glad young face that won me first, shine through those withered features and the glowing love of forty years thrills my heart, till the tears come. Say no more I can no longer be a lover. Though this form be bowed. God has implanted eternal love within. Let the ear be deaf, the eye blind, the hand palsied, the limbs withered, the brain clouded, yet the heart, the true heart, may hold such wealth of love, that all the powers of death, and the victorious grave, shall not be able to put out its quenchless flame.