How can I let my youth go by?
How can I let Time mark my brow,
And steal the light of a laughing eye,
And whiten the locks that are nut brown now.
And the tide that goes,
And ripples, and flows,
Like a beautiful river, on forever,
Over my head, through every vein,
And fills me, and thrills me, with joy like pain,
Old cruel Time,
With a touch of rime,
Will drug, and chill, and freeze, until
It likes a stream,
In its winter dream.
Ho! ho! old Time! you may chuckle and smile,
But Death may cheat you, and beat you yet;
What shall you say, if, after a while,
Ere the sun of my youth has set,
I go with him, to a closet dim,
And closing my eyes, in a long, long rest,
Lie white and cold,
And never grow old,
With my two hands clasped over my breast.
Always young,
With my song half sung--
Lying under the graves' green mould;
And the world, for a day
Would miss me, and say,
"When will the rest of the tale be told?"
And then go on,
Gaily on,
Till its hopes were fears, and its young were old.
And, lying there,
What should I care,
Though Time, in a phrenzy of baffled rage,
Should beat on my grave,
And howl and rave,
That I would not barter my youth, for age;
But lie and sleep,
; Down low and deep,
Though suns of a thousand seasons set.
Always young,
Never old,
With my song half sung,
And my tale half told--
Ho, ho, old Time, I may cheat you yet!
December, 1869
[BY AND BY]
Sometime fame shall come to me;
Sometime in the "yet to be."
Not to-day, and not to-morrow;
After years of toil and sorrow,
After losing youth and grace,
In the weary, foolish chase.
After weeks of bitter tears,
After months, and after years,
After waiting day on day,
Throwing love, and peace away,
I shall find the phantom nearing--
I shall find the shadows clearing.
I shall reach the thing I sought,
I shall reach, and find it--what?
Will it recompense, and pay
For the joys I cast away?
In the weary, weary race,
When I lost my youth, and grace?
Is it worth the wear, and strife--
Worth the best part of a life?
Thus have men and women queried,
Standing on the summit, wearied
With the long and steep ascent,
When their youth and grace were spent.
Time sweeps onward with his cycle:
Life is brief, and love is fickle.
I will pause not at his calling,
I will heed not tear-drops falling:
Fame, but Fame, will satisfy,
I shall find it by and by.
1870