An Old Man sat in his chimney seat As the morning sunbeam crept to his feet; And he watch'd the Spring light as it came With wider ray on his window frame. He look'd right on to the eastern sky, But his breath grew long in a trembling sigh; And those who heard it wonder'd much What spirit-hand made him feel its touch.
For the Old Man was not one of the fair And sensitive plants in earth's parterre; His heart was among the scentless things That rarely are fann'd by the honey-bee's wings: It bore no film of delicate pride, No dew of Emotion gather'd inside; Oh! that Old Man's heart was of hardy kind, That seemeth to heed not the sun nor the wind.
He had lived in the world, as millions live, Ever more ready to take than give; He had work'd and wedded, and murmur'd and blam'd, And paid to the fraction what Honesty claim'd; He had driven his bargains and counted his gold, Till upwards of threescore years were told; And his keen blue eye held nothing to show That Feeling had ever been busy below.
The Old Man sigh'd again, and hid His keen blue eye beneath its lid; And his wrinkled forehead, bending down, Was knitting itself in a painful frown. "I've been looking back," the Old Man said, "On every spot where my path has laid; Over every year my brain can trace; To find the happiest time and place."
"And where and when," cried one by his side, "Have you found the brightest wave in your tide? Come tell me freely, and let me learn, How the spark was struck that yet can burn. Was it when you stood in stalwart strength With the blood of youth, and felt that at length Your stout, right arm could win its bread?" —The Old Man quietly shook his head.
"Then it must have been when Love had come, With a faithful bride to glad your home; Or when the first-born coo'd and smiled, And your bosom cradled its own, sweet child; Or was it when that first-born joy Grew up to your hope—a brave, strong boy— And promised to fill the world in your stead?" —The Old Man quietly shook his head.
"Say, was it, then, when Fortune brought The round sum you had frugally sought? Was the year the happiest that beheld The vision of Poverty all dispell'd? Or was it when you still had more, And found you could boast a goodly store; With Labour finish'd and Plenty spread?" —The Old Man quietly shook his head.
Ah, no! ah, no! it was longer ago," The Old Man mutter'd-sadly and low; "It was when I took my lonely way To the lonely woods in the month of May; When the Spring light fell as it falleth now; With the bloom on the turf, and the leaf on the bough; When I toss'd up my cap at the nest in the tree; Oh that was the happiest time for me.
When I used to leap, and laugh, and shout; Though I never knew what my joy was about; And something seem'd to warm my breast, As I sat on a mossy bank to rest. That was the time—when I used to roll On the blue-bells that cover'd the upland knoll; And I never could tell why the thought should be, But I fancied the flowers talk'd to me.
"Well I remember climbing to reach A squirrel brood rock'd on the top of a beech; Well I remember the blue-bells so sweet That I toil'd with back to the city street: Yes, that was the time—the happiest time— When I went to the woods in their May-day prime." And the Old Man breathed with a longer sigh; And the lid fell closer over his eye.
Oh! who would have thought this hard, Old Man Had room in his heart for such rainbow span? Who would have deem'd that wild, copse flowers Were tenderly haunting his latest hours? But what did the Old Man's spirit tell, In confessing it loved the woods so well? What do we learn from the Old Man's sigh, But that Nature and Poetry cannot die!
