576 ELIZABETH O. HOYT. [1850-60. A HYMN OF OLD AGK When to the banquet of the soul Life's latest fruits are brought, And gathered in refulgent whole, Its added sunsets wrought. What glory resteth on his head, Whose lengthened shadow shows How dimly far life's cradle bed Is from its last repose. There come no more the pageantries That thronged the path of youth ; Pomp of meridian glories, That tempted manhood's truth ; And there no more the burning haste Of jjassion's treacherous flame, With conscious virtue's bitter waste, And self-accusing blame ; But peace, instead, and joy serene, As, wrapped in faith sublime, He walks with calm unfaltering mien Upon the verge of time. Temptations conquered, truth achieved, Falsehood and fear o'erthrown ; Justice and charity retrieved, To large experience grown ; All individual interests merged In universal claims, Divinely moved, and onward urged To ever nobler aims. He, on the remnant of his days, With wise affections crowned, Sits chanting o'er life's psalm of praise Against the outward bound ; Where steadfast Hope illumes the way, And Faith, with open eyes, ^^ Beholds the dawning of a day ^^ Eternal in the skies. Hail, happy Age ! when sinks thy sun In life's last purpling fold. How precious is the privilege won, Of calmly growing old. OCTOBER. Not Summer now, nor Winter yet ; Come walk with me awhile between. The Year invites ; almost Time waits. As Autumn holds ajar her gates — Her feast prepared ; her welcome said ; The heavens with benedictions spread. And all so courteous, fair and still, The Season and the Guest who will In cheerful leisure met. Oh, who would miss it ? or forget The suns that rise, the suns that set ; The rustle of the crimsoning leaf; The gush and murmur of the stream ; The thoughts we think, the dreams we dream. Those south-wind days — so bright so brief — Where many-hued on wood and sky, And many-voiced to ear and eye, October shifts the scene — Nay, stands apart in splendor mild, Nature's serene, self-conscious child. As when the soul, furnished with deeds That men call good, and heaven approves, No pride puts on, and makes no boast. But gaining ever, still gives most — So through the months October moves ; The Moon of Harvests on her front. The fruitage of the round yeai"'s care Full-ripened in her generous air, With gifts replete, as man with needs : Passing, 'tis true. And softly whispering, " So are you ! " But with a retrospect that fills With well-earned joy life's little day — Swift-gliding to the West of Time, So fast away !
