was his young dream?  To be a buccaneer.  Look at him now.  Ah, the dreams of our youth, how beautiful they are, and how perishable!  The ruins of these might-have-beens, how pathetic!  The heart-secrets that were revealed that night now so long vanished, how they touch me as I give them voice!  Those sweet privacies, how they endeared us to each other!  We were under oath never to tell any of these things, and I have always kept that oath inviolate when speaking with persons whom I thought not worthy to hear them.  Oh, our lost Youth—­God keep its memory green in our hearts! for Age is upon us, with the indignity of its infirmities, and Death beckons!

TO THE ABOVE OLD PEOPLE

Sleep! for the Sun that scores another Day
Against the Tale allotted You to stay,
Reminding You, is Risen, and now
Serves Notice—­ah, ignore it while You stay!

The chill Wind blew, and those who stood before
The Tavern murmured, ’Having drunk his Score,
Why tarries He with empty Cup?  Behold,
The Wine of Youth once poured, is poured no more

’Come, leave the Cup, and on the Winter’s Snow
Your Summer Garment of Enjoyment throw: 
Your Tide of Life is ebbing fast, and it,
Exhausted once, for You no more shall flow.’

While yet the Phantom of false Youth was mine,
I heard a Voice from out the Darkness whine,
’O Youth, O whither gone?  Return,
And bathe my Age in thy reviving Wine.’

In this subduing Draught of tender green
And kindly Absinth, with its wimpling Sheen
Of dusky half-lights, let me drown
The haunting Pathos of the Might-Have-Been.

For every nickeled Joy, marred and brief,
We pay some day its Weight in golden Grief
Mined from our Hearts.  Ah, murmur not
—­From this one-sided Bargain dream of no Relief!

The Joy of Life, that streaming through their Veins
Tumultuous swept, falls slack—­and wanes
The Glory in the Eye—­and one by one
Life’s Pleasures perish and make place for Pains.

Whether one hide in some secluded Nook
—­Whether at Liverpool or Sandy Hook
—­’Tis one.  Old Age will search him out—­and He
—­He—­He—­when ready will know where to look.

From Cradle unto Grave I keep a House
of Entertainment where may drowse
Bacilli and kindred Germs—­or feed—­or breed
Their festering Species in a deep Carouse.

Think—­in this battered Caravanserai,
Whose Portals open stand all Night and Day,
How Microbe after Microbe with his Pomp
Arrives unasked, and comes to stay.

Our ivory Teeth, confessing to the Lust
Of masticating, once, now own Disgust
Of Clay-Plug’d Cavities—­full soon our Snags
Are emptied, and our Mouths are filled with Dust.

Our Gums forsake the Teeth and tender grow,
And fat, like over-riped Figs—­we know
The Sign—­the Riggs’ Disease is ours, and we
Must list this Sorrow, add another Woe;