Classic Poem

The springs of life are failing one by one,
And Age with quicken'd step is drawing nigh;
Yet would I heave no discontented sigh,
Since cause for cold ingratitude is none.
If slower through my veins life's tide may run,
The heart's young fountains are not wholly dry;
Though evening clouds shadow my noontide sky,
Night cannot quench the spirit's inward sun!
Once more, then, ere the eternal bourn be pass'd,
Would I my lyre's rude melody essay;
And, while amid the chords my fingers stray,
Should Fancy sigh — " These strains may be its last! "
Yet shall not this my mind with gloom o'ercast,
If my day's work be finish'd with the day!