A SONG FOR OLD AGE.

Now nights grow cold and colder,

And North the wild vane swings,

And round each tree and boulder

The driving snow-storm sings —

Come, make my old heart older,

O memory of lost things!

Of Hope, when promise sung her

Brave songs and I was young,

That banquets now on hunger

Since all youth's songs are sung;

Of Love, who walks with younger

Sweethearts the flowers among.

Ah, well! while Life holds levee,

Death's ceaseless dance goes on.

So let the curtains, heavy

About my couch, be drawn —

The curtains, sad and heavy,

Where all shall sleep anon.