THE ANCIENT SAGE.
61
Is jutting thro' the rind;
The tiger spasms tear his chest,
The palsy wags his head;
The wife, the sons, who love him best
Would fain that he were dead;
The griefs by which he once was wrung
Were never worth the while"—
The tiger spasms tear his chest,
The palsy wags his head;
The wife, the sons, who love him best
Would fain that he were dead;
The griefs by which he once was wrung
Were never worth the while"—
Who knows? or whether this earth-narrow life
Be yet but yolk, and forming in the shell?
Be yet but yolk, and forming in the shell?
"The shaft of scorn that once had stung
But wakes a dotard smile."
But wakes a dotard smile."
The placid gleams of sunset after storm!
"The statesman's brain that sway'd the past
Is feebler than his knees;
The passive sailor wrecks at last
Is feebler than his knees;
The passive sailor wrecks at last
