The Old

Give me old songs — though rude and bold,
Yet sparkling with the purest gold;
Such as were syllabled in fire
When "rare Ben Jonson" swept the lyre;
And touches of his master-hand
Went vibrating through all the land,
And found in every heart a tone 
That seemed an echo of its own.

Give me old books — the tomes where mind 
Its choicest treasures hath enshrined, 
Rich with the thoughts of buried seers 
Whose genius glorified their years; 
Old books, well-thumbed and vellum-bound, 
The wise, the witty, the profound, 
Whose stained and ample pages hold 
A rarer wealth than gems or gold.

Give me old paths — though few the blooms 
That drug the senses with perfumes, 
And few the siren-notes that keep 
A chime to steps that climb the steep;
Old paths, though rugged, brightening still 
With golden gleams from Zion's Hill — 
By patriarchs and prophets trod, 
And leading to the mount of God!

Give me old friends — the tried of years, 
Whose soul is in their smiles and tears; 
Though rough of speech, and void of art, 
Yet frank and bold and leal of heart; 
With steady faith and soul serene, 
Scorning the hollow, false, and mean; 
With open brow and honest eye, — 
Their patent of nobility.

Then, in some mansion old and grim, 
Embowered by woods whose twilight dim 
Hallows the noonday, let me bide, 
The ebb of life's tumultuous tide; 
My passions hushed in deep repose, 
Forget ambition and its woes; 
In calmness wait, till Death enfold 
A heart that's weary, worn, and old.