O my coevals! remnants of yourselves! Poor human ruins, tottering o’er the grave! Shall we, shall _aged_ men, like _aged_ trees, Strike deeper their vile root, and closer cling, Still more enamoured of this wretched soil? Shall our pale, withered hands be still stretched out, Trembling at once with eagerness and _age_? With avarice and convulsions griping hard? Grasping at air! For what has earth beside? Man wants but little, nor that little long: How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour! _Young._ _Age_ should fly concourse, cover in retreat Defects of judgment, and the will subdue; Walk thoughtful on the silent solemn shore Of that vast ocean it must sail so soon; And put good works on board; and wait the wind That shortly blows us into worlds unknown. _Young._ But were death frightful, what has _age_ to fear? If prudent, _age_ should meet the friendly foe, And shelter in his hospitable gloom. _Young._ The seas are quiet when the winds are o’er, So calm are we, when passions are no more! For then we know how vain it was to boast Of fleeting things, so certain to be lost. Clouds of affection from our youthful eyes Conceal the emptiness which _age_ descries: The soul’s dark cottage, battered and decayed, Lets in new lights through chinks that time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home; Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new. _Waller._ The fruits of _age_, less fair, are yet more sound Than those a brighter season pours around; And, like the stores autumnal suns mature, Through wintry regions unimpaired endure. _Cowper._ _Age_, by long experience well informed, Well read, well tempered, with religion warmed, That fire abated which impels rash youth, Proud of his speed, to overshoot the truth, As time improves the grape’s authentic juice, Mellows and makes the speech more fit for use, And claims a reverence, in his shortening day, That ’tis an honour and a joy to pay. _Cowper._ How pure The grace, the gentleness of virtuous _age_! Though solemn, not austere; though wisely dead To passion, and the wildering dreams of hope, Not unalive to tenderness and truth,-- The good old man is honoured and revered, And breathes upon the young-limbed race around A grey and venerable charm of years. _Robert Montgomery._