THE sparkling eye that ruled the heart
Hath lost its magic beam,
And in the socket, heavily,
Like warning lamp doth gleam.
The wearied ear remits its toil,
Rejects the music-strain,
And with the folly of the world
No longer loads the brain.
The hand that with untiring deeds
Did mark the days of old,
Now trembleth in its feeble grasp
The water-cup to hold.
The foot no more o'er hill and dale
Doth keep its vigorous way,
But on the cushioned sofa rests,
A prisoner day by day.
Even Memory, with a wrinkled brow,
Is faltering o'er the page,
On which she registered her gains
From infancy to age.
And Fancy faileth in her skill
O'er fairy-land to soar,
And sadly folds a broken wing
To ride the blast no more.
But the sweet spirit's love to man,
In God its fearless trust,
Its zeal to keep a Savior's law
These fade not into dust
These perish not with time-but grow,
Like beaten gold, more bright,
The deathless children of the skies
That heavenward take their flight.