Ashtabula telegraph. (Ashtabula, Ohio) 1874-1880, 1879-12-19
THE IRON GATE.
Where is the patriarch you are kindly gr,

Where is the patriarch you are kindly greet
Not unfamiliar to my ear his name.
Nor yet unknown to many joyous meeting
In days long vanished; Is he still the same?
Or changed by years, forgotten and forget
ting,
Duli-eared. dim-sighted, slow OF speech
and thought.
Still DER the SAD. degenerate present fretting,
Where all goes wrong and nothing as 1t
ought.
Old age. the graybeard! Well, indeed, I know
shrqnk, tottering. bent, of aches and ills
In sermon, story, fable, picture, poem.
OF have met him from my earliest day.
In my old 4Esop, toiling with his bundle,
His load of sticks, politely asking death,
Who comes when called for, would he lug or
His fagot ti for himq He was scant of breath.
And sad, 'Ecclesiastes, or the Preacher"
Has he not stamped the image on my soul
In that last chapter, where the worn ont
signs Ger the loosened cord. the broken
Yes. long, indeed, I've known him at dis
and now, my lifted dOOrIateh shows him
take his shrivelIed hand without resistance
And find hieI smiling as his step draws near
What though of gilded baubles he bereaves
Dear to the heart of youth, to manhOOd's
Think Of the calm he brings, the wealth he
The boarded spOils. the Iegacies OF time.
Affairs once flaming, stIl with incense FRA
Passions uneasy musings rocked asleep;
Hopes anchor faster, wild desire less Yagrant,
Lies now less noisy, but the stream how
Still as the silver cord gets worn and slender
Its lightened task-work tugs with lessen
Hands get more helpful, voices grown more
soothe with their sOftened tones the slum-
Youth longs and manhood strives but age
remembers.
Sits by the raked up ashes of the past,
Spreads its Thin hands above the whitening
That warm its creeping life blood TIL the
last.
Dear to the heart its every loving token
That comes unbidden, ere its pulse grows
cold
Ere the last lingering ties oflife are broken,
Its labors ended and its story told,
An When around US rosy youth rejOlceS,
For us the sOrrow-laden bFeeZes sigh,
And through the chorus Of It's jocund voices.
Throbs the sharp note OF misery's hopeless
cry.
AS on the gauzy wings offancy flying,
From, some far orb track our watery
Home q t6s struggling, suffering. doubling,
Thesiivered glObule seems a glisteningtear.
But nature lends her mirror ofillusion.
TO win from saddened scenes orr age dim
And misty dayy-dreams blend in sweet con
The wintry landscape and the summer
skies.
So when the iron portal shuts behinds us,
And life forgets us. in its noise and WhirI,
Visions that Stunned the glaring MONDAY
And giimmnering starlight shows the gates
ofpearl.
come not here your morning hour to sad
A limping pilgrim leaning on his staff;
1. who never deemed it sin to gladden.
This vale Of sorrow with a wholesome
laugh.
If word ofmine another's gloom has bright
ened,
Through my dumb lips the heaven sent
message came;
If hand of mine another's task has hghtened.
1t felt the guidance it dares not claim.
But, Oh my gentle sisters! Oh my brothers I
These thickened snOwfakes hint OF tolls
release
These feebler pulses bid me leave to others
The task once welcome; evening asks for
peace;
Time claims his tribute; silence now is
golden;
Let me not vex the too lOng-suffering Tyre,
Though to your love untirlng still behOlden, q,
The curfew tells me-cOver up the fire.
And now with grateful smile and accents
cheerful,
And warmer heart than look or word can
tell,
In simplest phrase these traitorous eyes are
fearful,
Thanks, brothers, sisters, children, and
farewell.