Come, Willie, call the other boys, And then another little voice, Soft pleading, said: "Me, too!" O childish heart, that could not bear O childish love, that longed to share Such tone should ne'er be heard in vain, A link in that sweet household chain, But not alone in childhood's years Of life's deep agony. The lonely soul, athirst for love, Will cry as infants do; And lift, all other tones above, Its passionate-“Me, too!” Formed by one hand, we live and die; Before one throne we kneel; The longings of humanity Send up one deep appeal. GROWING OLD. 153 Our nature's tendrils intertwine, Fed by one common dew; Each heart throb says: "Me, too!" God teach us, then, in rank to stand, And casting off the ice of pride, Wear warm hearts, mild and true; Nor from the weakest turn aside Who feebly cries—“Me, too!” GROWING OLD. SOFTLY, oh softly, the years have swept by thee, Far from the storms that are lashing the ocean, Nearer each day to the pleasant home light; 154 GROWING OLD. Far from the waves that are big with commotion, Growing old cheerfully, Cheerful and bright. Past all the winds that were adverse and chilling, Past all the currents that wooed thee unwilling Peaceful and blest. Never a feeling of envy or sorrow When the bright faces of children are seen; Never a year from their youth wouldst thou borrow; Thou dost remember what lieth between. Growing old willingly, Rich in experience that angels might covet, Loving and dear. GROWING OLD. 155 Hearts at the sound of thy coming are lightened; Many a face at thy kind words has brightened “It is more blessed to give than receive.” Growing old happily, Blest, we believe. Eyes that grow dim to the earth and its glory Ears that are dull to the world and its story Youth cannot know. Fourscore! But softly the years have swept by thee, Touching thee lightly with tenderest care; Sorrow and death they did often bring nigh thee, Yet they have left thee but beauty to wear. Growing old gracefully, Graceful and fair. 156 WORDS OF A POET. WORDS OF A POET. If a pilgrim has been shaded I a woe-swept chord have stilled; If a dark and restless spirit I with hope of heaven have filled; If I've made for life's hard battle One faint heart grow brave and strong, Then, my God, I thank Thee, bless Thee, For the precious gift of song. |