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262

POEMS.

Yet lingers on the verge of heaven,
And forms majestic come and go,
In yellow belt and tunic blue,
Where red the sky of evening burneth.
With awe mine eye upon you turneth,
Ye heroes of an age more bright,
With martial buff and broad-sword dight !

One veteran from that age victorious, —
bi childhood's days I knew him well —
Erect he stood amongst us still,
A trophy ruined, but yet glorious.
With silver of a century shone
His locks, (to him none else was given,)
And on his brow deep scars were graven
Like runes on monumental stone.
True he was poor ; yet he but jested
With poverty, familiar grown ;
Frugal as in the field, alone
Within his woodland hut he rested.