Oh, nature never groweth old,
The Eternal arm doth her uphold!
She droopeth not, doth not decay;
Is beautiful as on the day
When the strong morning-stars poured out
Their hymn of triumph at the birth,
Of the young, undeclining earth,
And all the sons of God did shout
In their immortal joy to see
It bound into immensity!
Bot man, for whom the earth was made,
A feeble worm, doth droop and fade!
Those fleecy clouds, like hills of heaven,
To them is constant beauty given;
This little flower which at my feet
Springs up, is beautiful and sweet-
A thousand years, and this poor flower
Will be the same as at this hour!
But man, who as a lord is placed
Amid creation, what is he?
A thing whose beauty is defaced
By age, by toil, by misery!
Wherefore that proud intelligence;
That discontented, reasoning sense
Which keeps him restless, and doth send
His struggling thought through depth and height;
Which makes him strive to comprehend
The Eternal and the Infinite?
Wherefore this immaterial being
Which with the body is at strife;
This powerful pulse of inward life,
Which ever feeling, hearing, seeing,
Finds nothing that can satisfy?
Better methinks, the eagle's wing,
Which bears it where its soul would spring,
Up to the illimitable sky!
Better the desert-creature's might,
That makes its life a strong delight,
Than this unquiet bosom-guest
That fills man's being with unrest!
Time was, my life was bright as theirs;
Time was, my spirit had no cloud-
But age the buoyant frame has bowed,
And gloomed my soul with many cares!
Oh youth, how I look back to thee,
As to an Eden I have lost;
Thy beauty ever haunteth me
As an unquiet, lovely ghost,
Which in my arms I would enfold,
But thou elud'st my feeble hold!
But hark! my daughter singeth now!
Sweet words are ever on her tongue,
And a glad kindness lights her brow:
No wonder is it, she is young!
[The sound of a wheel is heard within,
and a voice singing:
There is a land where beauty cannot fade,
Nor sorrow dim the eye;
Where true-love shall not droop nor be dismayed,
And none shall ever die!
Where is that land, oh where?
For I would hasten there!
Tell me, I fain would go,
For I am wearied with a heavy woe!
The beautiful have left me all alone;
The true, the tender, from my path are gone!
Oh guide me with thy hand,
If thou dost know that land,
For I am burthened with oppressive care,
And I am weak and fearful with despair!
Where is it? tell me where?
Thou that art kind and gentle, tell me where?
Friend, thou must trust in Him who trod before
The desolate paths of life;
Must bear in meekness as he meekly bore
Sorrow, and pain, and strife!
Think how the son of God
These thorny paths hath trod ;
Think how he longed to go,
Yet tarried out for thee the appointed woe:
Think of his weariness in places dim,
When no man comforted nor cared for him!
Think of the blood-like sweat,
With which his brow was wet,
Yet how he prayed, unaided and alone,
In that great agony, "Thy will be done!"
Friend, do not thou despair,
Christ from his heaven of heavens will hear thy
For I have erred; my soul is weak,
It ever leaves the righteous track,
Some dangerous, darker path to seek!
God pardon me if I have sinned!
But my impatient soul doth long
To leave this weary flesh behind,
And be once more the young, the strong!
And when I see, untired, unspent,
How nature keeps her loveliness,
Like some strong life omnipotent,
I do abhor my feebleness;
And marvel whence it is man's frame,
That shrines a spirit strong and bold,
Which hath a proud, immortal aim,
Becomes so bowed and feebly old;
Why he keeps not his manhood's strength
Maturely stately, filled with grace,
And rich in knowledge, till at length
He goes to his appointed place;
Can God delight or beauty see
In age's dark infirmity?
Take, take me hence! I am grown weary!
Life is a prison, dark and dreary!
Oh that my soul could soar away
Up to the imperishable day,
And drink at ever-living rills,
And cast behind this weary clay,
This life of never-ending ills!
But who comes here? I know him not,
Or if I did, I have forgot;
My senses are so feeble grown,
I know not now whom I have known!
Strang. Friend, I would take a seat by you awhile, I'm weary with the travel of to-day.
Shall have put on its immortality!
Lord, I believe - help thou mine unbelief!
Strang. Why, what an inconsistency is man!
This moment you were murmuring-now you take
Old Man. What, are you weary with the jour- Another kind of language, altogether!
Old Man. I told you I was weak! I do abhor
Old age, which so enfeebles and chains down
My spirit to this miserable matter.
But I doubt not that God is strong to save;
Strang. I do believe you, friend: I can see traces And if I keep my trust in him unbroken,
Of vigour that has been; and I have heard
Of your herculean strength, long years ago.
He, after death, will crown me as a star,
With an imperishable youth and glory!
Old Man. Ay sir, I have been young, but now But I am weak, and age doth wake in me am old!
Strang. There was no wrestler like you, no
strong swimmer
Could breast the billows with you; you could run
Up to the mountain summit like the goat,
Bounding from crag to crag- -you followed then
The shepherd's healthful calling, and were known
Both near and far, as a bold mountaineer.
A spirit of impatience which is sin!
Strang. This fearful spirit of despondency
Which whispers "this is sin, and this—and this!"
Is part of the infirmity of age;
Does not the young man, vigorous in his body,
Think, speak, and act without such qualms of fear!
You, in the free exuberance of youth
Went on rejoicing, like a creature filled
Old Man. You had not knowledge of me in my With immortality of strength and beauty;
Strang. No, but I oft have heard you spoken of,
As so excelling in athletic sports,
Men made a proverb of you; afterward,
You served your country in its bloody wars,
And seconding your valour by your arm,
Did miracles of bravery.
All is over!
I am sunk down
Into the feeble, wretched thing you see!
Why was I not cut down in that strong prime?
I loathe this weary wasting, day by day.
I am a load on others as myself!
But as the body, so the spirit weakens,
And thus becomes a feeble, timid thing!
Old Man. I know it!-I have known it all too
long!
Strang. Seven years you've been in this most sad condition
Old Man. I have-and I was threescore years and ten
When this infirmity first fell upon me.
Strang. It is a great age, seventy years and seven; And seven years more you may remain on earth! Old Man. Oh, Heaven forbid, that I for seven years more
Strang. Age, my good friend, is dark, dark and Should drag on this poor body!—yet my life
'Tis no new truth discovered yesterday!
Old Man. I see the young men glorying in their I did suppose you had no mercies left,
I see the maidens in their graceful beauty,
And my soul dies within me at the thought
That they must fade, and wither, and bow down,
Like me, beneath the burthen of old age!
Strang. It is a gloomy lot that man is born to!
God deals not kindly in afflicting thus;
There can be no equivalent for age;
Would not the monarch, stricken by the weight
Of fourscore years and their infirmities,
Buy youth from the poor peasant at the price
Of twenty kingdoms? Life should have been given
Methinks, exempt from miserable decay;
Enough that we must lay it down at last.-
Into the very current of your thoughts?
I thought that they and youth all went together.
Old Man. I have a child,-the child of my old age.
My sons went to the dust in their bright youth-
Daughters I had- but they too were, and are not!
But God was pleased to spare unto my age
This youngest born- this dutiful, dear child,
Who doth so tend my miserable decay,
Winning a decent livelihood by toil!
Strang. I've seen her, she is fair to look upon:
"Tis much she hath not left you for a husband!
Old Man. Oh, you know not my daughter, to
speak thus!
Is she not dutiful?-She hath put off
Year after year, the day of her espousals,
That she might tend on my decrepitude!
Strang. I do bethink me now
Old Man. I know not if such thoughts be wise To the young pastor of a mountain people;
My flesh is weak, and doth so warp my spirit,
That I have murmured thus;- but God is wise!
I know that he afflicts us for our good.
And this I know, that my Redeemer liveth;
And though the worm this body shall devour,
Mine eyes shall yet behold Him when this mortal
I've heard it spoken of- I've seen him too;
He is a pale and melancholy man,
Who reads his Bible, and makes gloomy hymns-
Your daughter often sings them to her wheel.
Old Mun. Ah, me! his crossed affection clouds
And doth impair his health, not over strong!
And thus I know that while my life endures
I must divide two loving, tender hearts!
But if you heard him pouring forth his faith,
His happy, Christian faith, in burning words,
And saw his cheerful life, you would not say
He was a melancholy man!
Thou 'rt young-thou 'lt live to feel it many years-
Sit down beside me, child!
Marg.
Holding long converse with thee. I was glad,
For there is little to divert thy thoughts
In this dull place -
-no horsemen pass this way;
And since the road was cut beneath the mountain,
But rarely a foot-traveller. Whence came he?
Was he some scholar travelling in these parts —
Or came he from the city?
Old Man.
I do not doubt the man is good and kind,
And in your presence wears a happy face.
But I have seen him in his mountain-valley,
When the dark fit is on him, sad enough!
I scarce know;
Old Man. God help me! I have sundered them Something he said of dwelling in the city,
But what, I have forgot; my memory fails me,
too long!
Strang. True, it must ever wound a generous I am a weak old man! But sing to me
Old Man. A proper cordial spirit! a prime spirit!
He must have aged parents whom he serves
With dutiful respect, and my grey hairs
Are reverenced for their sakes! So was youth taught
When I was young; we scoffed not at the old,
Nor held them drivellers, as youth does now;
This generation is corrupt, and lax
In good morality;-saving my daughter
And Ugolin, none reverence my years.
Alas, the thought of them brings bitter pangs
Across my soul! This man knows Ugolin,
And saith he has his melancholy hours-
Perchance my cheerful daughter has hers too!-
Too long I've sundered them, for that they mourn:
What do I know but 'neath this show of duty
They wish me dead! Ah, no! it is not so;
Shame on myself for harbouring such a thought!
Marg. Father, the sun is sinking 'neath the boughs
Of yonder lime- and see, the gilded dome
Within the city now is lighted up;
'Tis late, my father, and the evening air
Some comfortable hymn - I ever loved
Music at sunset in my better days.
My daughter, God is good, though man is weak,
And doubteth of his providence!
Marg.
He is a god of mercy more than judgment!.
But hark! those are the sounds of eventide;
The booming of the beetle, and the cry,
Will chill thy frame!-Give me thy hand, dear Shrill as a reed-pipe, of the little bat;
And lean on me, I will support thee in.
And the low city-hum, like swarming bees;
And the small water-fall, I hear them now:
Old Man. Nay, 't is not chill! these summer eves These mark the closing eve: now come within,
Let me enjoy the sun while yet
I have your supper ready, and will read
To you awhile in some religious book.
Old Man. Well, well-I am but like the ancient He almost curses life, so does he long
To pass away in death, which he conceives
The portal of immortal youth and joy.
Never did aged man abhor his years
Like my poor father! "Tis, I must believe,
Only the weakness of a feeble spirit,
Bowed down beneath his threescore years and ten!
Ugo. Margaret, thou hast performed a daughter's
part;
I did allow thy father's claim to thee,
Night-fall—a room in the cottage. In the far part, Now list to mine. Do thou make him my father,
the old Man's bed, with the curtains drawn round it. - Margaret sits within a screen at her work; a small lamp is burning beside her.
Marg. I'll sing a hymn, it oft hath cheered his
spirit
In its disquietude - Oh Lord forgive him,
If he say aught injurious of thy mercy –
He is a weak, old man!
And let him dwell with us; we'll comfort him -
Our bliss will reconcile him to his life!
Marg. Alas, thou know'st he will not leave this
roof!
Sorrow and love have bound him to these walls
He'd die if we remove him; and thy duties,
As the good pastor of a worthy flock,
[She sings. Bind thee unto thy mountains! Ugolin,
Could I believe this weary waiting for me-
This seven years' tarriance on a daughter's duty,
Fretted thee with impatience, I would yield
Thee back thy faith, and give thee liberty
Bowed 'neath the load of human ill,
Our spirits droop, and are dismayed;
Oh Thou, that saidest peace, be still,'
To the wild sea, and wast obeyed,
Speak comfortable words of peace,
And bid the spirit's tumult cease!
We ask not length of days, nor ease,
Nor gold; but for thy mercy's sake,
Give us thy joy, surpassing these,
Which the world gives not, nor can take;
And count it not for sin that we
At times despond, or turn from thee!
Enter UGOLIN, softly.
Ugo. How is thy father, Margaret ? does he sleep?
Marg. Methinks he does; I have not heard him
For half an hour.
Ugo.
Thou lookest sad, my love,
Hast thought my tarriance long? I would have sped
To thee ere sunset, but I stayed to comfort
A mother in affliction; a poor neighbour;
Wife of the fisherman, whose son hath fallen
Into the lake, and was brought home a corpse!
A worthy son, the comfort of the house.
Marg. Alas, poor soul! it is a great affliction!
Ah Ugolin, this is a world of sorrow,
And, saving for the hope the Christian bears
In his dear faith, a dark and joyless world!
Ugo. It is not oft thy spirit is o'ercast-
I see thee ever as a gentle star,
Shedding kind, cheering influence!
Marg.
My spirit hath grown sadder, and I ponder
Upon the many ills which flesh is heir to;
Sickness and death-the falling off of friends;
Blightings of hope; and of the desolation
Sin brings upon the heart as on the home-
And hearing now of this poor woman's grief,
And of her brave boy's death, my soul is saddened;
Besides, my father's mood doth frighten me;
Heaven grant his soul's impatience be not sin!
To choose elsewhere; but I have known thee well,
Have known thy constancy, thy acquiescence
With the great will of God, howe'er unpleasing
To our poor souls; so let us still perform
Our separate duties! When my father needs
My care no longer, 't will be a great joy
To have performed my duty unto him;
And all the good, life has in store for us,
Will come with tenfold blessing!
Ugo.
I thank thee for the justice thou hast done me -
But let me have my will, and to thy father
Speak once more on this point! If he refuse,
As he before has done, I'll say no more!
Old Man. Margaret! my daughter Margaret!
Marg. [drawing aside the curtains.] Yes, dear fa-
I must not tarry longer, or the hour
Will be past midnight ere I reach my home.
I will be here to-morrow ere the sun set.
Sweet rest to thee, my Margaret, and good dreams,
And to the poor old man!
[He embraces her.
Marg. Farewell, good Ugolin! [He goes out.
[Margaret fastens the door; then, after
listening a few minutes by her father's
bed, she retires to her own chamber.
[The Old Man takes the sling, but attempt
ing to throw, his arm drops powerless.
The youths turn away and laugh.
Old Man. Curse on this arm! am I a laughing-
stock?
Let me go hence, I am an aged fool!
Yet that I might but only shame those scoffers
I'd yield my hope in heaven!
Strang. [reconducting him to his seat.] My friend,
Vain-glorious fools! to laugh the old to scorn.
I told you I was skilled in medicines;
The secret virtues of all plants and stones,
And earths medicinal, are known to me;
And hence I have concocted a strong draught
Of wondrous power-it is the Elixir Vitæ,
For which the wise of every age have sought.
[He presents a small flask. Drink this, my friend, and vigorous life shall run Throughout your frame; you shall be young anon; You shall be even as these; and more than these! Old Man. Give me the flask! I'll shame the insolent :
Noon of the next day—the saloon of a house in the
city, opening to a green on which young men are
engaged in athletic sports- the old Man sits in a I will outsling these mockers!
large chair looking on; the Stranger stands beside
him.
[He takes it eagerly, then pauses as if deliberating; smells at it, and looks at
it between his eye and the light.
Drink, my friend.
Said'st thou it would restore my vanished youth?
Strang. Yes, yes, will give thee youth, and
strength and beauty-
Will give thee youth which is imperishable!
Old Man. And I shall live, enjoying life on earth?
Strang. Yes, wilt enjoy upon this glorious earth
All that the young desire!
Old Man. [giving it back.] I'll drink it not!
I'll none of it—it is an evil thing.
Strang. What, to be such as these, an evil thing! Did they not laugh at thee, and mock thine age? Old Man. Ay, what is youth but folly? Now I
The sinfulness of my unholy wishes:
I thank thee, God, that thou hast kept my soul
From this great snare! Oh, take me, take me hence,
A feeble man, I am not of your sort!
Strang [aside.] A curse upon thee, and thy feeble-
ness. [He speaks to four of the young men.
My friend, the litter will be here anon;
These will conduct thee safely to thy daughter:
Give me thy hand, old friend, I fain would serve thee.
Old Man. Let me go home: I am a weak old man.
[The four youths accompany him out.
Strang. A weak old man! a weak old whining
fool!
If pain and hunger could have made him mine,
Old Man. [attempting to rise.] Give me here a He should not thus have left me: but I know
Strang. [supporting him.] You shall, my friend! [To one of the youths.] Give here a sling, good Decius; here you see
The soul is only strengthened by oppression.
I still will speak him fair-1 will flatter him,
And stir up that impatient soul of his,
Till his own act shall make him mine for ever
Now let him rest awhile, and bask i' the sun,
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