Poems of Old Age

The sentinel cock upon the hillside crew —
Crew thrice, and all was stiller than before-
Silent till some replying wanderer blew

His alien horn, and then was heard no more.

Where erst the jay within the elm's tall crest Made garrulous trouble round the unfledged young;

And where the oriole hung her swaying nest, By every light wind, like a censer, swung;

Where sang the noisy masons of the eaves,
The busy swallows circling ever near,
Foreboding, as the rustic mind believes,
An early harvest and a plenteous year;

Where every bird which charmed the vernal feast Shook the sweet slumber from its wings at

morn,

To warn the reapers of the rosy east, -
All now was songless, empty, and forlorn.

Alone, from out the stubble piped the quail. And croaked the crow through all the dreary gloom;

Alone, the pheasant, drumming in the vale,

Made echo to the distant cottage-loom.

There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night;

The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, Sailed slowly by-passed, noiseless, out of sight.

Amid all this-in this most cheerless air,

And where the woodbine sheds upon the porch Its crimson leaves, as if the Year stood there, Firing the floor with his inverted torch

Amid all this, the centre of the scene,

The white-haired matron, with monotonous

tread,

Plied her swift wheel, and, with her joyless mien, Sat like a Fate, and watched the flying thread.

She had known Sorrow. He had walked with

her;

Oft supped, and broke with her the ashen crust; And in the dead leaves still she heard the stir Of his black mantle trailing in the dust.

While yet her cheek was bright with summer bloom,

Her country summoned, and she gave her all, And twice War bowed to her his sable plume;

He gave the swords to rest upon the wall

Re-gave the swords-but not the hand that drew,

And struck for liberty the dying blow;

Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmurs of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone
Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous
tune.

At last the thread was snapped, her head was bowed;

Life drooped the distaff through his hands serene ;

And loving neighbors smoothed her careful

shroud,

While Death and Winter closed the autumn

scene.

THE LAST VOYAGE.

"Walk thoughtful on the silent, solemn shore Of the vast ocean it must sail so soon."

AT shut of day they sat and talked,
In their old house by the sea;
The weather-beaten Solomon,
And his good wife, Marsalee.

"The sun looks like a ship," he said, "That is nearly come to land;

That slanting beam, like a plank pushed out To take aboard some hand."

And when, at length, the gold-backed clouds
Crouched in the dark, from view,