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The Beauty of Age.
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his long summer. The knot of little ones that encircle them, down to the golden-haired, blue-eyed, three-year old boy and girl in the corner, who stand with their tiny arms clasped about each other, are his grandchildren. The dark-eyed child, the central star of this youthful galaxy, in a voice, distinct, liquid, and full of genuine pathos, utters the salutatory lines which some elder sister (given to the sin of rhyming,) has taught her. The verses have no value in themselves, yet happy tears roll slowly down the cheeks of the Patriarch, and fall from the gentle eyes of his wife, as they listen. And friends weep, not merely because the sight moves them, but because, oh! truly because they feel and are melted by the beauty of that Patriarch's old age. These were the words the little damsel uttered with such touching emphasis:—

Welcome this festive scene!—this glad array Of smiling faces gathered here! These friends who join to celebrate the day We deem the happiest of the year! The day so fraught with good—so bless'd of heaven And bless'd by thankful hearts on earth—For seventy years and eight the brightest given, The day that saw our father's birth!
A stately tree he seems, that towers high, Its boughs with fruit all richly laden, While spring-time blossoms, such as you and I, (To her little sister,)Its topmost branches crown and gladden! Ah! many blasts—ah! many tempests loud, Have battled round his noble head, And shook the limbs—(the trunk they never bowed—) And desolation round them spread!
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