O Countess, each succeeding year
Reveals that Time is wasting here:
He soon will do his worst by you,
And garner all your roses too!
It pleases Time to fold his wings
Around our best and brightest things;
He'll mar your damask cheek, as now
He stamps his mark upon my brow.
The same mute planets rise and shine
To rule your days and nights as mine,
I once was young as you,—and see...!
You some day will be old as me.
And yet I bear a mighty charm
Which shields me from your worst alarm;
And bids me gaze, with front sublime,
On all these ravages of Time.
You boast a charm that all would prize,
This gift of mine, which you despise,
May, like enough, still hold its sway
When all your boast has passed away.
My charm may long embalm the lures
Of eyes, as sweet to me as yours:
And ages hence the great and good
Will judge you as I choose they should.
In days to come the count or clown,
With whom I still shall win renown,
Will only know that you were fair
Because I chanced to say you were.
Fair Countess—I wax grey—awhile
Your youthful swains will sigh or smile;
But should you scorn, for smile or sigh,
A grey old Bard—as great as I?
KENWOOD, July 21, 1864.