Poems (Cook)/The Old Man's Marvel

by Eliza Cook

THE OLD MAN'S MARVEL.

Old man, old man, come tarry awhile,
 There is something I fain would ask of thee;
For thy hands are thin and thy lips fall in,
 And thou'st been a long time in the world, I see.

Thy back is bow'd, and thy forehead is plough'd;
 Thou'st a tapering chin, and a sunken cheek;
Oh! thou hast been long in the mortal throng,
 So tarry, and give me the wisdom I seek.

Of all thou hast mark'd and all thou hast met
 In wide Creation's curious host;
Come, tell me, I say, through thy pilgrim way,
 What is it hath call'd up thy wonder most?

"I'll tell you full soon," quoth the gray old man,
 "Though, methinks, you might be as wise as I;
It is not the moon," quoth the gray old man,
 "Nor the rolling sun, nor the azure sky:

"There is that which can change with swifter might
 Than the orb that maketh the ghost-hour fair;
There is that which gloweth with warmer light
 Than the crimson globe in the purple air.

"It is not the main with its rushing tides,
 Fitful in fury and curbless in will;
Nor the black ravine with its iron sides,
 Nor the pathless peak of the mountain hill.

"There is that which taketh its own wild course,
 In madder mood than the raging waves;
There is that which mocks the fissured rocks
 With harder walls and darker caves.

"There's a loftier thing than the hills that spring,
 Though, perchance, 'tis alone in its daring height;
There's a loftier thing than the eagle king,
 And it striketh out with a holder flight.

"It is not the wolf, nor the tiger dam,
 With red fangs laved in their reeking food;
There is that which drains and laps from the veins,
 Fiercer in preying and fonder of blood.

"It is not the worm that dwelleth in shade,
 Leaving its slime as it travelleth slow;
There is that which is bound to the dusty ground,
 More abjectly crawling—more meanly low.

"It is not the sweet bird that dies in its nest,
 Pining to miss its chosen love;
For I have seen truth and affection rest
 In a deeper fount than the breast of the dove.

"It is not the snake in the jungled brake,
 Crushing and stinging with venom'd fold;
There is that which coils with deadlier toils,
 Griping its victim with firmer hold.

"I have measured the star," quoth the gray old man,
 "And can guess what its limits in space may be;
I have found how far," quoth the gray old man,
 "The lead will sink in the 'deep, deep sea.'

"But there is that which hath baffled my skill,
 Though my brain to the task was closely set;
I have watch'd and sought with right goodwill,
 But its power and depth I know not yet.

'Tis an Etna, burning with demon hate;
 'Tis an Eden, breathing devotion's sigh;
'Tis a tyrant wielding the sceptre of state;
 'Tis a crouching slave to a gentle eye.

"It panteth to claim the laurel of Fame;
 It starteth in chase of the daisies of spring;
It labours in search of a deathless name;
 It runneth a race with a painted wing.

"It hath fouler blots than the leper's spots;
 It leapeth in freedom, nobly pure;
It quails at the touch of a careless word;
 It can stretch to the rack-rope, and bravely endure.

"It yieldeth the fire that hallows the lyre;
 It formeth the poet's rich key-note;
It nerveth the murderer's lurking hand,
 To clutch the knife and grapple the throat.

"It doeth in mercy the deeds divine;
 It works in oppression, accursed and cold;
It stands unbribed by an Eastern mine—
 For a ducat of dross 'tis bought and sold.

"Oh! 'tis a mazy and mystic thing;
 It deceiveth my trust and foileth my lore;
I am watching it still with a right goodwill,
 But it winneth my wonder more and more.

"I am waning away," quoth the gray old man,
 "My sands are few—I shall soon depart;
But, while I stay," quoth the gray old man—
 "I shall marvel most at the human heart."