AN OLD MAN’S JOYS.

They say the lot of Age is one of bitterness and tears,
That thorns and tares are garner’d in with every sheaf of years;
Not so – the step may falter more, the eyes grow weak and dim,
The heart retains it freshness, though decay may touch each limb!

The Old Man loves a smiling brow, a bold and fearless frame,
And proudly clings to those who share his just and honour’d name;
Their every look is dear to him, their words each chord can thrill,
And oft his own young days will rise in dreams of beauty still.

He take his grandchild on his knee, and parts the ringlets fair,
And clasps her hand within his own to hear the evening prayer;
His thoughts grow light and buoyant as he listens to the laugh
Of careless, happy children, as they ride upon his staff.

And then he sits upon the turf beneath the sun’s warm ray,
And tells the little wondering folk of regions far away;
Oh these are pleasures none can feel but him whose evening’s close
Looks back upon a well-spent life of virtue and repose!

W. J.