At sixty-five 'tis ill to catch at pelf.
Oh! let me read that lesson to myself,
And muse upon the passing of my son.
My turn it was and yet the youth hath gone,
While I for sorrow am as soulless clay.
I will make haste, perchance o'ertake, and say
Reproachfully: “My turn it was to go;
Why hast thou gone then 'gainst my will and so
Robbed me of all my peace? Thou didst abate
My cares; why hast thou left thine agéd mate?
Didst thou perchance find younger company
That lightly thus thou hast abandoned me?”
Seven years and thirty o'er the youth had sped
When he distasted of the world and fled.
Harsh comrade proved he of my pilgrimage,
And, having turned his back on me in rage,
Went, but he left me his calamities,
His griefs, a full heart, and blood-weeping eyes.
Now whither he hath passed he doth aspire
To choose a habitation for his sire
In Light. Since then a weary time hath gone,
And of his way-mates hath returned not one.
Good sooth! he looketh for me wrathfully
Because I loiter. Five and sixty I,
He thirty-seven. He asked not agéd me,
But hurried off alone. I stayed to see
The outcome of my labours. May God grace
Thy soul with light and wisdom's breastplate place
Before thy life. It is my prayer that He,
Who giveth all and ruleth righteously,
The Holy, will forgive each fault of thine,
And cause thy moon now overcast to shine.