The Old Man press'd Palemon's hand;

To Lucy nodded with a smile;

Kiss'd all the little ones around;

Then clos'd the gate, and paus'd awhile.

"When shall I come again!" he thought,

Ere yet the journey had begun;

It was a tedious length of way,

But he beheld an only son.

And dearly did he love to take

A rosy grandchild on his knee;

To part his shining locks, and say,

"Just such another boy was he!"

And never felt he greater pride,

And never did he look so gay,

As when the little urchins strove

To make him partner in their play.

But when, in some more gentle mood,

They silent hung upon his arm,

Or nestled close at ev'ning pray'r,

The old man felt a softer charm;

And upward rais'd his closing eye,

Whence slow effus'd a grateful tear,

As if his senses own'd a joy,

Too holy for endurance here.

No heart e'er pray'd so fervently,

Unprompted by an earthly zeal,

None ever knew such tenderness,

That did not true devotion feel.

As with the pure, uncolour'd flame,

The violet's richest blues unite,

Do our affections soar to heav'n,

And rarify and beam with light.