  In the loftiest room, of princely state, Of a modern palace grand and great,— Whose marble front is a symbol true Of the inner splendors hid from view,— On an autumn night, when wild without The bold winds held their revel rout, Rudely assailing the passing throng, Through churchyards creeping with mournful song, A group was gathered around a board Heaped with all that wealth could afford, Or taste could suggest: dishes costly and rare, Fruits of all climes and all seasons, were there. The pendent lights in brilliance danced On the gleaming plate their rays enhanced; The massive mirrors thrice displayed The stately banquet there arrayed. Furniture carved by an artist hand, Carpets which only great wealth could command, Curtains of damask, of lace, and of gold, Spoke of the splendors wealth could unfold, And filled with a joy and a pleasure rare The youthful hearts that were gathered there. Slender each form, and fair each face, Of the twelve gay lads which that table grace, As with genial talk and pleasant jest They banter each other, and cheer their guest. For one guest is there, as youthful as they, With a heart as light, and a voice as gay, Who laughs at their jests with ready glee, And whose quick returns speak a spirit free, An honored guest; for, on the morrow, They must part with him in pain and sorrow. The glittering emblems his shoulders bear Bid him for strife and for peril prepare; Bid him go forth at his Country’s call, With her banner to triumph, or on it to fall. A moment’s pause, as with ready hand The waiter hurries, at command, To clear the table, and, instead Of the rich, choice viands thickly spread, Ranges dark bottles and cruses, which show Marks of long years in damp vaults below. The richest juices age can display Are quickly spread in tempting array. Wines of Bordeaux and Seville are there, With liquors and cordials sparkling and rare; And bottles are opened, and glasses are filled. When all in a moment the tumult is stilled, As he who presides with dignified grace High raises his goblet, and stands in his place:— “I give you, friends, no warrior’s name Your hearts to thrill, your blood to flame; No toast to beauty shall my lips repeat, Where we to-night in sacred friendship meet To part with one, who, in our boyhood’s days, Earnest and true, won all our love and praise; Who, on the morrow, plays the hero’s part, And seeks the battle with a loyal heart. His health I give with an earnest prayer, That, while on his mission of peril and care, Success may be his, and, by deeds renowned, He may meet us again with laurels crowned.” All glasses are raised, when a gentle hand Is heard at the door—all silent stand As it slowly opens, and into the light An old man steps, his features bright: The long white hairs o’er his shoulders stream; Like silver threads in the warm rays beam. Wrinkled his brow, and pale his face, Wasted his form, and tottering his pace, Shrunken his cheek; but the eye above Tells of gentleness, kindliness, love. And silent stand all as he slowly seeks A place near the table, and gently speaks:— “Young men, but a moment I check your mirth, And bring you back to the common earth. Unbidden I come with an old man’s prayer: May it seek your hearts, and gain entrance there! Look on my face, seamed, not with crime, But with marks of age before their time: These long white hairs should not have shown Till ten more years had by me flown. Age is upon me; not age by years, But age by sorrow and care and tears; Not age that cheers as it draweth near Yon heaven which seemeth more bright and clear, But age which causes the heart to lag In its onward course, and the spirit to flag; That prays for death as but a release From earthly care, and finds no peace In that sweet belief that at last I hail,— ‘There is rest for the weary beyond the vale.’ For to me has come a spirit of light, Bringing the morning, and chasing the night; Causing my heart with joy to swell To my Maker, ‘who doeth all things well.’ You shall hear my story: ’twill not be long, And may guard you all from sin and from wrong. I had wealth and plenty in goodly lands, In houses and cattle; and from my hands Many were fed; and many were they Who partook of my charity day by day. My house was open to stranger and friend; And my gold did I lavishly, freely spend. But one bitter curse did my wealth uprear To poison my life,—the tempter here, The sparkling demon, which now I see From all your glasses glaring on me,— A monster who steals on its prey so slow, That it has your life before you know Or dream of its power: this was the curse That sat at my fire-side, robbed my purse, Poisoned my life, and left me to be A drifting log on the world’s wide sea, Ruined and bankrupt, lost and bereft; No kindred, no fortune, no treasure, left. Treasure!—yes; for I had three sons, The hope of my life,—three noble ones. You shall hear their fate, and then I’ll away, Nor longer your hour of pleasure delay. One sought as a merchant hopeful to clear Our tarnished name, to again uprear Our shattered house; but, sad to say, The curse of the wine-cup was in his way. He seized on it madly, drank deep and fast, And sank to the drunkard’s grave at last. I stood by his side as with frenzy wild He cursed himself and his wife and child; He cursed me too, as the one who had led |
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