Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek and tresses gray
Seemed to have known a better day;
The harp, his sole remaining joy,
Was carried by an orphan boy.
The last of all the bards was he
Who sung of border chivalry;