NONE ever could fathom the depth of my power, Or idea form of the day or the hour On which I was born, and yet all believe That I lived ere the old serpent whispered to Eve; And that is sufficient, my subjects all say, To warrant my being old, ugly, and gray. They hate me, and call me a crusty old king, And say, every manner of evil I bring. They call me a tyrant, and say that I come And crush out the lights and endearments of home,— Enfeebling their comforts, and bearing away From their bosoms their loved ones, and changing each ray Of hope's cheerful sunshine to sorrow and gloom, Consigning all beautiful things to the tomb; That I bring bloody wars between nations and kings, And pestilence shake from my poisonous wings; That love flies abashed, when my chariot appears, And the light of young beauty dissolves into tears; The rose fades away from the soft, damask cheek, And blushes in furrows oblivion seek; The step, once elastic, grows heavy and dull, And the touch of my hand all the heart's pulses lull. I am looked on by all as a merciless king, Whose hand is against every beautiful thing. When the forest trees scatter their leaves on the ground, And wild flowers no more on the hill-sides are found, No notice is taken of season or clime, But the verdict goes forth,—'tis the work of old Time. And thus am I taunted, as, year after year, I toil on, unwearied, Earth's children to cheer. When youth holds its levee of gay revelling, They give me no thanks for the pleasures I bring; They say not, 'tis Time gives to manhood its strength, And tapers the form with proportion and length; No thought of the tyrant king crosses their mind, Till Nature with furrows their temples have lined. E'en then, how they shrink from the touch of my hand, Alarmed at my shadow, and tremblingly stand Aghast! when with them I my mission would close, And leave them to rest in their final repose.
