I stood at Stillwater, the Lakes and White Plains,
And offered for freedom to empty my veins!
"Dost now ask me, child, since thou hear'st here I've been,
Why my brow is so furrowed, my locks white and thin—
Why this faded eye cannot go by the line,
Trace out little beauties, and sparkle like thine;
Or why so unstable this tremulous knee,
Who bore 'sixty years since,' such perils for thee?
"What! sobbing so quick? are the tears going to start?
Come! lean thy young head on thy grandfather's heart!