  Old and feeble, bowed and weary, Trembling near the dreaded stream; Night approacheth, and the sunset Casts a last expiring beam On the silver-headed wanderer Waiting by the turbid tide, List’ning for the phantom boatman O’er the Lethean waters wide. Yet, amid the gathering darkness, And the chill of coming night, He croons a song that reaches heaven, E’en in trusting and delight. And he seems to catch a murmur, Wafted from the other shore, Of sweet-voiced friends that are awaiting Where the night comes nevermore. Poor old grandsire, patient ever, Thou hast known neglect and care, And hast felt the dreary heartache, Ingratitude and dark despair. But thou ’st ever been uplifted And sustained by One who knew All the sorrow man is heir to, And to man’s relief that flew. Oh, ye careless and forgetful! For your own and father’s sake, Cheer his feeble, trembling footsteps; Do not let his old heart break. Take his withered hand and bless him, He hath given e’en life for you; He will soon glide o’er the river; God grant in peace his last adieu. |
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