THE THREE AGES. BY MARY HOWITT. How beautiful are ye, Age, Youth, and Infancy! She, with slowly tottering pace, She, with light and youthful grace, And the child with clustering locks; All, all are beautiful! For in them I can see, Thus pictured forth, a lesson that is full Of the strong interests of humanity. Childhood all sorrow mocks; It dwells in pleasant places; Sees ever-smiling faces! Flowers, and fair butterflies, and pebbly brooks, These are its teachers and its lesson-books! If chance a cloud come over it to-day, Before to-morrow it hath passed away. It has no troubling dreams; No cogitations dark, no wily schemes; It counteth not the cost Of what its soul desires, with thoughtful trouble; Knows not how days are lost How love is but a bubble; Knows not an aching forehead, a tired brain; Life's cares have small companionship with thee! A child no more! a maiden now, A graceful maiden, with a gentle brow; She doubteth none; she doth believe All true, for she can not deceive! Dear maiden, thou must learn, ere long, That Hope has but a syren's song; - A serpent 'mong the flowers is twined! Oh, youth! how fair, how dear thou art; That guileless innocence, that clings Alas! that Time must take from thee Thy beautiful simplicity! Age, leaning on its staff, with feeble limb, Doth backward turn its eye, And few and evil seem the days gone by! Oh, venerable age! hast thou not proved all things, Love, Hope, and Promise fair, And seen them vanish into air, Like rainbows on a summer's eve! Riches unto themselves have taken wings; Love flattered to deceive; And Hope has been a traitor unto thee! And thou hast learned, by many a bitter tear, By days of weary sorrow, nights of fear, Yet, venerable age, Full of experience sage, Well may the good respect thee, and the wise! For thou hast living faith, Triumphant over death, Which makes the future lovely to thine eyes! Thou knowest that, ere long, 'T will be made known to thee, Why virtue is so weak, why evil strong; And thus thou walkest on in cheerfulness, And the fair maiden and the child dost bless! Oh! beautiful are ye, Age, Youth, and Infancy! These are your names in Time, When the eye darkens and the cheek grows pale; But in yon fairer clime, Where Life is not a melancholy tale, Where woe comes not, where never enters Death, Ye will have other names-Joy, Love, and Faith! |