II.
Down in Dalmossie dell I sought a nook
Beneath a thick and widely-spreading tree,
And there I sat to con my little book,
My book of old black-letter grammarie.
All stillness in that deep and lonely dell
Save hum of bumble-bee on nimble wing,
Or zephyr sporting round the wild blue bell,
While fancy feigned some tiny tinkle-ring.
Lo! come from yonder sheiling by the burn
An aged pair whom Time claimed as his own—
Their clothes all brown, and sere and sadly worn,
But brushed and clean, and tentily put on.
I noted well the signs of their great eild,
Their shrunken limbs, their locks of snowy hair,
The wobbling walk, the bowing, bending bield,
The wrinkled cheeks, and looks of dule and care.
I thought on hapless man—with changing face,
Each day more furrowed as he wears along.
He looks into the glass to cry Alace!
Alace for that spring time that's past and gone!
He looks askance, and sees young eyes that lour
On him, so comely once, unsightly grown:
The faded roses make a scented bower,
But aged man seems spurned by man alone.
Yet happy he who, changing with advance,
Has bright and golden hopes beyond the sun;
He can give back their saucy, pitying glance,
Who set such wondrous price their youth upon.
Their night will come in turn, yea, comes apace,
Without, mayhap, the hope of brighter day,
When age-worn looks will don their native grace,
And feel no more this world's despised decay.