III. He's sinking, he's sinking, He's sinking, oh Heaven! He rises, I see him, Five strokes, Charlie, mair— He's shaking the wet From his bonny brown hair. He conquers the current, He gains on the sea, Ho, where is the swimmer Like Charlie Machree! Come over the river, But once come to me, And I'll love ye forever Dear Charlie Machree. IV. He's sinking, he 's gone, Oh God, it is I, It is I who have killed him, Help, help-he must die! Help, help-ah, he rises- Once more now, for me! Now cling to the rock- Come lie in my bosom, If there ye can sleep, I canna speak to ye, Ye've crossed the wild river, And I'll part frae ye never OLD AGE. BY THE REV. EDWARD B. HALL. LIFE presents few images of higher beauty, than that of a tranquil and virtuous old age. It is quite distinct from the beauty and power of all other periods. The innocence of infancy has a charm unsurpassed in its kind, nor are they to be envied who cannot see it. The simplicity of childhood finds its way to every heart, which selfishness has not cased, or system perverted. The buoyancy of youth, especially when subdued by the gentle hand of religion and gladdened by her smile, is inexpressibly lovely. And the sober strength of manhood, putting itself forth for the good of society and the enduring interests of man, is an object on which the eyes of all, even of the frivolous and corrupt, love to rest, or are forced to look with respect. But you will pass them all, if you see beyond them the venerable form, erect in its dignity, or bending with its load of years well-filled. Here is maturity. And if it has been attained beneath the warmth and is tinged with the rays of the sun of righteousness, there is a grandeur in its beauty, a majesty in its calmness, a mellowness and richness in its fruits, to which none can be indifferent. Even when it is broken with the infirmities of old age, when the senses are dulled, the mind impaired, and the multitude of years has become labor and sorrow, it is an object of deep respect and unusual interest, to every mind that respects itself and every heart that is interested in its race. For, beside the intrinsic venerableness of age, varied but never destroyed by circumstances, there will come occasional words of far-reaching recollection, brief hints full of experience and instruction, voices of warning, breaking upon the ear like the voices of the dead, and at times flashes of light issuing from hidden depths— all telling of an age that is past, and a soul that cannot decay. Then, as the shades of death creep on, see the tranquillity with which its approach is often watched, the subdued joy with which it is welcomed, the kind but unsparing faithfulness with which it is improved for the instruction of those around. And when (as we sometimes see in the saddest yet noblest wrecks, and to us among the valued tokens of the souls immortality) the worn out frame loses at last even its power of burdening and clouding, and the spirit which for a time had been its prisoner becomes again its Monarch, emerging from its dungeon darkness and reascending its throne of light, how unearthly does it appear,-how resistlessly does it command the perishing organs, its sensual servants, to do its will, or act as if now independent of their ministry! The sunken frame lifts itself up with a strength not its own, the drooping arm is new-nerved, the listless eye beams with no common light, the faltering voice recovers and deepens fearfully its tone, and the shrivelled lips, touched with an eloquence as of another world, give |
