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I LOVE to look on a scene like this,
Of wild and careless play,
And my locks are not yet gray;
And makes his pulses fly,
And the light of a pleasant eye.
I have walked the world for fourscore years ;
And they say that I am old, And my heart is ripe for the reaper, Death,
And my years are well nigh told.
I'm old, and “I 'bide my time :"
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 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;
And my pulse is getting low
In treading its gloomy way;
To see the young so gay.
Though the blossoms be ripe on the China tree,
Though the flower of the orange be fair to see,And the pomegranate's blush, and the humming-bird's
wing, Throw the charms of elysium, O South, on thy spring ; It is dearer to me to remember the North, Where scarce the green leaf yet comes timidly forth, To walk in thy gardens, and dream that I roam Through the verdureless fields and the forests of Home.
If the golden-hued oriole sing from the tide,
China tree! though thy blossoms, in chaplets, may bond The brows of the brave, and the necks of the fond,
THE CHINA TREE.
Never think that fit garlands our oak cannot form,
ONE evening wet and weary came Friendship to my door, And begged for shelter from the storm—I'd sheltered
him before A piteous look he gave me, and asked in accents mild If his companion I'd let in, he said, a harmless child.
I stirred the dying embers, and soon the fagot blazed, I spread my frugal table, the wine their spirits raised;