  Fifty-eight to-day, fifty-eight to-day! How years of your life have sped away, And left in the brown of the dying year A quiet content, devoid of fear At the onward march of Time's noiseless feet, Which ever advance, but ne'er retreat, As they bear you on to that silent shore, From which earth's mortals return no more. With the night of time come the sunset cares, The faltering step, the snowy hairs, The tottering frame, and the stifled breath, Sure harbingers of approaching death, That bring with their train a tranquil repose Unknown to the tears and sighs and woes That belong to scenes of an active life, Whose atmosphere breathes of toil and strife. As glorious day dies out in the west And sinks in crimson splendor to rest, While the stars of heaven come one by one With reflected light from th' sinking sun, So may life with you in its late decline, Leave a trail of light that yet may shine To illumine the path that others tread, And cheer the way of the vanquished. |
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