A SOCIETY OF ANTIQUARIES.
How many are the fancies
That joyous childhood hath!
It stoops to gather flowers
Where’er may be its path.
And age, too, has its fancies,
As earnest, if less sweet;
It makes but stormy weather
When fancies chance to meet.
It is an ancient chamber,
Where he for years has stored
What years have gone to gather—
The antiquary’s hoard.
It is their grandsire’s birthday,
And every child is come
In merriment and secret
To spoil the guarded room.
One trails a mystic garment
That once a mummy wore;
One empties a rich casket
Of coins upon the floor.
In comes the angry grandsire,
His cane is in his hand:
There seems but little terror
’Mid that detected band.
Methinks a pleasant lesson
Is given by the scene—
That age alike and childhood
Delight in what has been.
They will make, those happy children,
The old man’s heart their own—
There never was a pleasure
Could be enjoyed alone.
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