  O silent tickler of the human brain!— The infant’s, boyhood’s, manhood’s, and old age’— In some thou ’bidest with consoling strain; In others, burning with revengeful rage. The babe is prompted to its mother’s breast, While with sweet lullabys she heeds her child, And dandles it, or rocks it on to rest; Herself perchance a widow, or beguil’d:— A widow! and within her village cot, She sees the fence encircling the green sward, And eyes the porchway, leading to the spot Where he lies mould’ring, once the village bard. “Boys will be boys,” and so they go a playing; Methinks I see nigh twenty of them there Who drop their marbling while the donkey’s braying, And laugh most heartily at what they hear. There, ten years hence, not one of them is seen, The field of industry absorbs them all, Yet there are others playing on that green, Knuckling at marbles, or at batting ball. One well-known lad has gone across the sea, Another’s crippled, and another’s dead: Out of those twenty there remains but three, And they have cares, for each of them have wed. The man—a merchant, or a city-scribe, Has round him rang’d his family-group at night; His gains are great, and therefore doth subscribe Towards the evening’s leisure of delight. God’s holy day comes round, they take in turn To fill the pew, for which he pays the rent: They’ve not yet had occasion for to mourn, And so the intervals are cheerly spent. He banks his cash day after day, perchance; His sundry books are regularly pent; He speculates at home, in Belgium, or in France, For all goes well upon the Continent. Speeds forth at morning in his usual health; The family-group repeat their kind adieu; Once more he’s on the path to gain and wealth, And meets a friend, who startles him anew! The news of some disastrous incident Now smites him like a demon’s evil dart— The bank, in which he felt most confident, Is “broken,” and will soon have broke his heart! He then to Heaven uplifts his tearful eyes (Adversity had check’d the worldly spark); Despairingly he ponders, then he sighs, Like as a seaman in a sinking barque. Time, swiftly rolling, ’printeth on his cheek A hallow’d countenance, imbued with care; Once mighty,—humble, thankful now, and meek, And regular at morn’ and evening pray’r. Obedient to God’s laws of life and death, Old Age prepares to meet Eternity!— Deep furrows on his brow, and shorten’d breath, Are tokenings of his infirmity. Recurs to him (when at his social board)— Some little element of jealousy, Occasion’d through an inadvertent word Escaping, when in his prosperity. He now repenteth of the injury done, And makes amends by words of lovingness; Calls to his side his dear and only son, Whose mind, refresh’d, at once forgiving is. A thousand little things flit to his mind, With wondrous force of perspicuity; As in his old arm-chair he is reclined, Believes what once was incongruity. The lessons of a life-time now hath taught The old man to put faith in holy things; He strikes his bosom, for a happy thought Revives some former truthful ponderings. Alas! he fails, bed-ridden; (hence he dies.)— Some goodly creature reads the Book of fate. His family ’round him, sees him close his eyes; And thus is finish’d the four-fold estate. |
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