Mr. Origen Bennett

Old Friend, I would not have thee boast
Though we have crossed the stream, almost,
Approaching to the farther coast;
For I am but a step behind,
With one “game” ear, but no wise blind,
And one great toe not over kind.

I trust no harsher fare was thine
These eighty years of storm and shine,
Than Heaven vouchsafed my seventy-nine.
A checker-work of gay and sad,
Well pieced together, have we had,
But life is sweet, and I am glad.

In boyhood, looking far before,
Not old Methusalah’s age seemed more,
Than the uncountable four score.

But standing here with thoughtful heed
Where every shrub and flower and weed
Is nipped by frost, or gone to seed;
We find the years are all too few
For what we fondly hoped to do,—
With all too many aches to rue.

What then? We are not the dupes of Time!
Before us are less hills to climb,
The nearer goal looms more sublime;
And what is left us here is best,—
The golden silence of the west,
And eve with Hope’s star on her breast.

Even now the century fades, as we,
Sinking on Time’s returnless sea
Blood red with murder’s infamy!
And yet, through clouds that darkest brood
My faith in the Eternal Good
Burns warm through every gloomy mood.

Calm be thy years that yet remain,
Unsaddened by the Sons of Cain
Who drench the earth with crimson rain!
The March of God is onward still
O’er legions of opposing ill
And what He wills to do, He will.