ON A PICTURE OF CHILDREN PLAYING.

I love to look on a scene like this,

Of wild and careless play,

And persuade myself that I am not old

And my locks are not yet gray;

For it stirs the blood in old man's heart,

And makes his pulses fly,

To catch the thrill of a happy voice,

And the light of a pleasant eye.

I have walked the world for fourscore years,

And they say that I am old;

That my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,

And my years are well nigh told.

It is very true — it is very true —

I'm old, and‘ I bide my time’ —

But my heart will leap at a scene like this,

And I half renew my prime.

Play on! play on! I am with you there,

In the midst of your merry ring;

I can feel the thrill of the daring jump,

And the rush of the breathless swing.

I hide with you in the fragrant hay,

And I whoop the smothered call,

And my feet slip up on the seedy floor,

And I care not for the fall.

I am willing to die when my time shall come,

And I shall be glad to go;

For the world, at best, is a weary place,

And my pulse is getting low;

But the grave is dark, and the heart will fail

In treading its gloomy way;

And it wiles my heart from its dreariness,

To see the young so gay.