So far as lies in thee. But if I light
Upon another savior, and still see
The sunbeam,—his, the child I call myself,
His, the old age that claims my cherishing.
How vainly do these aged pray for death,
Abuse the slow drag of senility!
But should death step up, nobody inclines
To die, nor age is now the weight it was!"
You see what all this poor pretentious talk
Tried at,—how weakness strove to hide itself