The Old Pensioner

An old, old man, ‘tis thus I see him yet;
Bent o’er a staff of hardy stuff,
    A knotted savin, peeled and tough,
And round a gnarl his knotted fingers met.

His long white hair, – how wholly white and thin,–
    Hung straight about his withered face,
    Wherein a mild, benignant grace
Shone from a moonlight sky of peace within.

Befitting well his eye, the westering sun,
    Down the long slope of summer days
    Shed over him its mellowed rays,
Filmed with the slumberous dream of heaven begun!

To see him sitting by his cottage-door
    Or moving down the dusty street,
    That clouded not his lingering feet,
Unconscious reverence made the child’s tread slower.

Along the odd hill-pastures, scorched and brown,
    By rocks gray-green with crispy moss,
    We saw his tired feet move across
To the green valley, creeping slowly down.

There the tall shrubs hung ripened, jewel-black
    With berries level to his hand;
    No boy plucked these, – some whisper bland
Within said, “Spare his century-burdened back.”

His words were few, – low-voiced, and measured words;
    Of far-off scenes, far even to him,
    To us how vastly far and dim, –
And awful with the clash of hostile swords!

His sword, the loyal symbol of command,
    Hung scabbardless, and sheathed in rest;
    Gaunt age was crumbling into dust
His blue coat, decked with gold and scarlet band.

We looked in breathless awe, and dared not ask,
    “Was this a bayonet’s thrust? did here
    A glancing ball the gold-lace shear?
That tarnish, – is it blood? or time’s dull mark?”

No child of his renewed his youthful Moon;
    In his old cot he sat alone
    With his old wife, a doubled crone,
In pensive peace prelusive of the tomb.

It seemed, in sooth, to our young, wondering eyes,
    The incarnate Century sat there, –
    Mysterious Time with silver hair,
Brooding his strange unwritten histories.

He passed away, I know not how nor when,
    But long ago, so long he seems
    A vanishing dream of vanished dreams.
That never lived, a man with living men.

But who may say what sparks of patriot fire,
    And hate of tyranny, were there
    Dropped into young hearts, unaware,
To blaze again in slavery’s funeral pyre?