HIS golden locks time hath to silver turned;
O time too swift! O swiftness never ceasing!
His youth ’gainst age, and age at time, hath spurned,
But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing:
Beauty, strength, youth, are flowers but fading seen;
Duty, faith, love, are roots and ever green.
His helmet now shall make an hive for bees,
And lovers’ sonnets turn to holy psalms;
A man-at-arms must now serve on his knees,
And feed on prayers, that are old age’s alms:
But though from court to cottage he depart,
His saint is sure of his unspotted heart.
And when he saddest sits in homely cell,
He’ll teach his swains this carol for a song,—
‘Blessed be the hearts that wish my sovereign well,
Cursed be the souls that think her any wrong!’
Goddess, allow this aged man his right
To be your beadsman now that was your knight.