the last of the gascoignes.
171
When young, I listened to the old oak trees
Rustling their dark leaves in the gentle breeze,
I think that this strange wild music of the wind
Is both calm and soothing to a troubled mind.
To me 'tis like a voice that so softly speaks,
Reminding all that we are poor, vain, and weak!
That old age comes slowly, but still creeping on;—
That the once rosy cheek becomes pale and wan;—
Our proud forms must bend, with hand and face,
Changed and haggard, wrinkled and effaced;
Bleared and dim, the once fine piercing eye,—
With tottering steps, and with long-drawn sigh!"—
Thus spake the good and thoughtful Brend,
While sitting one evening by his wearied friend.
In the distance, once again they descry
A white sail rising beneath the sky;
In her crimson glories now is she dressed,
The smiling west with her own azure breast,
On the lone and the beauteous tranquil main,
Reflecting its smiling glories back again.
A signal is raised—round about she veers,
And for the lone island the ship now steers.
Hailed with hearty cheers, and saved once again,
No more delusive hopes or fancied visions vain
But dear old England's white cliffs and shore
Rustling their dark leaves in the gentle breeze,
I think that this strange wild music of the wind
Is both calm and soothing to a troubled mind.
To me 'tis like a voice that so softly speaks,
Reminding all that we are poor, vain, and weak!
That old age comes slowly, but still creeping on;—
That the once rosy cheek becomes pale and wan;—
Our proud forms must bend, with hand and face,
Changed and haggard, wrinkled and effaced;
Bleared and dim, the once fine piercing eye,—
With tottering steps, and with long-drawn sigh!"—
Thus spake the good and thoughtful Brend,
While sitting one evening by his wearied friend.
In the distance, once again they descry
A white sail rising beneath the sky;
In her crimson glories now is she dressed,
The smiling west with her own azure breast,
On the lone and the beauteous tranquil main,
Reflecting its smiling glories back again.
A signal is raised—round about she veers,
And for the lone island the ship now steers.
Hailed with hearty cheers, and saved once again,
No more delusive hopes or fancied visions vain
But dear old England's white cliffs and shore
