The elder's rebuke

"Listen! When your hair, like mine,

Takes a tint of silver gray;

When your eyes, with dimmer shine,

Watch life's bubbles float away:

When you, young man, have borne like me

The weary weight of sixty-three,

Then shall penance sore be paid

For those hours so wildly squandered;

And the words that now fall dead

On your ear, be deeply pondered—

Pondered and approved at last:

But their virtue will be past!

"Glorious is the prize of Duty,

Though she be 'a serious power';

Treacherous all the lures of Beauty,

Thorny bud and poisonous flower!

"Mirth is but a mad beguiling

Of the golden-gifted time;

Love—a demon-meteor, wiling

Heedless feet to gulfs of crime.

"Those who follow earthly pleasure,

Heavenly knowledge will not lead;

Wisdom hides from them her treasure,

Virtue bids them evil-speed!

"Vainly may their hearts repenting.

Seek for aid in future years;

Wisdom, scorned, knows no relenting;

Virtue is not won by fears."

Thus spake the ice-blooded elder gray;

The young man scoffed as he turned away,

Turned to the call of a sweet lute's measure,

Waked by the lightsome touch of pleasure:

Had he ne'er met a gentler teacher,

Woe had been wrought by that pitiless preacher.