Poems (Trask)/Too Old

by Clara Augusta Jones Trask

For works with similar titles, see Too Old.

TOO OLD.

He stands before the cottage door,
  An aged man, and gray;
He hears the neap-tide beat the shore,
And the laughter, on the distant moor,
  Of children at their play.

His dim eyes wander off afar,
  Beyond the broken lines
Of the rocks that bound the harbor bar,
Of the skies that hold the evening star,—
  Beyond the wood of pines.

He looks on sunny southern hills,
  Beyond the clouds of gold,—
He gives no heed to the wild bird's trills,
Or the faint perfume of the daffodils
  In the garden grand and old.

His weird eyes see the snow-white camp
  Pitched on the river bank;
He hears the sentry's steady tramp,
And the iron hoofs of the war-horse clamp,—
  The spur in his bloody flank.

He sees the old flag's red and white,
  With field of starry blue,
Float proudly through the purple light,
Above the smoke of the deadly fight,
  And the soft turfs crimson dew.

He hears the crash of shot and shell
  And sees the flash of the guns,—
He hears the fifes like a funeral knell,
And the bugle-notes like a silver bell,
  And the glorious roll of drums!

"Oh God!" he cries, "for youth again!
  For manly strength once more!
I'd strive to the death with might and main
I would not shrink at mortal pain,
  Or pale at the battle's roar!

"My hair is white with age, I know,
  But if they'd let me stand
With our brave recruits, before the foe,
Where hot shot falls like winter snow,—
  With the flag-staff in my hand,—

"I would not flinch, though all the air
  Were red with death and flame,—
Though cannon-breaths were in my hair,
And death was busy,—all things I'd dare
  For country and her fame!"

The soft night falls,—he breathes a sigh,
  He knows his dreams are vain!
But he yearns for the distant battle-sky,
And his old blood stirs to the battle-cry,
  And his heart is young again!