Growing Gray

If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?

The land of honorable death

Is here:-up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out-less often sought than found-
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,

And take thy rest.

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George Gordon Byron [1788-1824]

GROWING GRAY

"On a l'age de son cœur."

A. D' HOUDETOT

A LITTLE more toward the light;

Me miserable! Here's one that's white;
And one that's turning;

Adieu to song and "salad days;"

My Muse, let's go at once to Jay's,
And order mourning.

We must reform our rhymes, my Dear,—
Renounce the gay for the severe,—

Be grave, not witty;

We have, no more, the right to find
That Pyrrha's hair is neatly twined,—
That Chloe's pretty.

Young Love's for us a farce that's played;
Light canzonet and serenade

No more may tempt us;

Gray hairs but ill accord with dreams;
From aught but sour didactic themes
Our years exempt us.

Indeed! you really fancy so?

You think for one white streak we grow
At once satiric?

A fiddlestick! Each hair's a string

To which our ancient Muse shall sing
A younger lyric.

The heart's still sound. Shall "cakes and ale"
Grow rare to youth because we rail

At schoolboy dishes?

Perish the thought! 'Tis ours to chant
When neither Time nor Tide can grant

Belief with wishes.

Austin Dobson [1840

THE ONE WHITE HAIR

THE wisest of the wise

Listen to pretty lies

And love to hear 'em told.

Doubt not that Solomon

Listened to many a one,

Some in his youth, and more when he grew old.

I never was among

The choir of Wisdom's song,

But pretty lies loved I

As much as any king,

When youth was on the wing,

And (must it then be told?) when youth had quite gone by.

Alas! and I have not
The pleasant hour forgot

When one pert lady said,

"O Walter! I am quite

Bewildered with affright!

I see (sit quiet now) a white hair on your head!"

Another more benign
Snipped it away from mine,

And in her own dark hair

Pretended it was found. . .

She leaped, and twirled it round .

Fair as she was, she never was so fair!

Walter Savage Landor [1775-1864)

Middle Age

BALLADE OF MIDDLE AGE

OUR youth began with tears and sighs,
With seeking what we could not find;
Our verses all were threnodies,

In elegiacs still we whined;

Our ears were deaf, our eyes were blind,
We sought and knew not what we sought.
We marvel, now we look behind:
Life's more amusing than we thought!

Oh, foolish youth, untimely wise!

Oh, phantoms of the sickly mind! What? not content with seas and skies,

With rainy clouds and southern wind,
With common cares and faces kind,
With pains and joys each morning brought?
Ah, old, and worn, and tired we find
Life's more amusing than we thought!

Though youth "turns spectre-thin and dies,"
To mourn for youth we're not inclined;

We set our souls on salmon flies,

We whistle where we once repined.
Confound the woes of human-kind!
By Heaven we're "well deceived," I wot;
Who hum, contented or resigned,
"Life's more amusing than we thought"!

ENVOY

O nate mecum, worn and lined

Our faces show, but that is naught;

Our hearts are young 'neath wrinkled rind:

Life's more amusing than we thought!

349

Andrew Lang [1844-1912]

MIDDLE AGE

WHEN that my days were fewer,

Some twenty years ago,

And all that is was newer,

And time itself seemed slow,

With ardor all impassioned,

I let my hopes fly free,

And deemed the world was fashioned My playing-field to be.

The men whose hair was sprinkled
With little flecks of gray,

Whose faded brows were wrinkled

Sure they had had their day.
And though we bore no malice,
We knew their hearts were cold,
For they had drained their chalice,
And now were spent and old.

At thirty, we admitted,

A man may be alive,
But slower, feebler witted;
And done at thirty-five.

If Fate prolongs his earth-days,
His joys grow fewer still;
And after five more birthdays
He totters down the hill.

We were the true immortals
Who held the earth in fee;
For us were flung the portals
Of fame and victory.

The days were bright and breezy,
And gay our banners flew,
And every peak was easy

To scale at twenty-two.

Middle Age

And thus we spent our gay time
As having much to spend;
Swift, swift, that pretty playtime
Flew by and had its end.
And lo! without a warning
I woke, as others do,
One fine mid-winter morning,
A man of forty-two.

And now I see how vainly
Is youth with ardor fired;
How fondly, how insanely
I formerly aspired.

A boy may still detest age,
But as for me I know,

A man has reached his best age
At forty-two or so.

For youth it is the season
Of restlessness and strife;

Of passion and unreason,
And ignorance of life.

Since, though his cheeks have roses,

No boy can understand

That everything he knows is

A graft at second hand.

But we have toiled and wandered
With weary feet and numb;
Have doubted, sifted, pondered,—
How else should knowledge come?

Have seen, too late for heeding,
Our hopes go out in tears,
Lost in the dim receding,

Irrevocable years.

Yet, though with busy fingers

No more we wreathe the flowers,

An airy perfume lingers,

A brightness still is ours.

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