Is wont to come again and clothe his brow
As at his fourscore strength. But now he seemeth
To be forgetful of his vigorous frame,
And boweth to his staff as at the hour
Of noontide sultriness; and that bright sun!
He looketh at its pencilled messengers,
Coming in golden raiment, as if light
Were opening a fearful scroll in heaven.
Ah! he is waiting till it herald in
The hour to sacrifice his much loved son!