OLD AGE.

Mr. Burke has quoted as an instance of the sublime, produced by a profusion of magnificent metaphor, the panegyric upon Simon the son of Onias the High Priest, in the book of the son of Sirach. A passage no way inferior to this in sublimity, and infinitely before it in interest and pathos, occurs in the last chapter of the last work of King Solomon, where he gives a description of old age.

I shall leave it to the moralist and divine to set forth the wisdom and the excellence of the advice which serves to introduce this description. I consider the passage merely in the light of a composition and one of the most exquisite pieces of poetry that is to be found in any language.

Age is first pointed out in the expression, "the evil days-the years when we shall say,-I have no pleasure in them."

In youth when the blood is yet warm, and the

spirits high, the simple consciousness of existence is attended with pleasure-a pleasure which is never duly appreciated till it is lost. When we first open our eyes upon the visible creation, and behold the sun shining in his strength, the moon walking in brightness, the stars and all the host of heaven, we regard them as things that are common, and are thankless for the blessing. But we shall learn to value them, when as age comes upon us they begin to wax dim; when the blessed light of heaven itself seems to be obscured.

In youth as in the spring-time of life, sorrow takes no hold of the mind. As the short vernal shower is succeeded by the bright gleam of sunshine, and serves to give fresh beauties to the landscape; so the afflictions of youth are soon forgotten, and only give a more pleasing zest to the joys that are to follow. But age has few cheering gleams: afflictions then take a deeper root—they are heavier while they last, and not so easily removed. "The clouds return after the rain."

How finely is the feeble and defenceless state of age alluded to in the expression,-" In the day when the keepers of the house shall tremble." The keepers of the house-those who are entrusted with its safety, the guards set to protect it from secret fraud, or open violence-they tremble. "The strong men," the champions renowned for war, who

turned the battle from our gates, themselves to the yoke.

"bow "-submit

"The grinders cease because they are few, and they that look out at the windows are darkened." How poetical, how beautiful are these allusions to the infirmities which mark the decay of nature!

When those who labour at the mill are reduced to so small a number that their strength is no longer able to move it, they must cease. The sentinel ascends the watch-tower and looks forth, but all is darkness-no object is to be distinguished through the gloom.

There is much conveyed in the expression, "the doors are shut in the streets." The bustle and business of the day in a large city-the most lively instance of human activity-is designated by the doors in the streets being open. Then is the time for meeting and transacting affairs-for buying and selling for every trade pursuing its occupations-for visiting, feasting, and pastime. But now "the doors are shut in the streets;" business and bustle, and buying and selling, and hospitality and pleasure are all over. The late animated scene is desolate. A dead silence reigns as of the night; no work, nor device, nor wisdom remains.

We have another occurrence of the allusion to the mill, which, simple though it be, is in this instance highly affecting. "The busy mill" is a cheerful, an

K

interesting object, and connected in our minds with many pleasing associations. Its sound gladdens the village, and presents images of plenty, and prosperity, and happiness. But now the machine begins to fail-the motion flags. "The sound of the grinding is low," indicating that it is ere long to cease, and to be heard no more.

"And he shall rise up at the voice of the bird." Nothing could so beautifully mark the imbecility of extreme old age, as the circumstances here chosen : as if it were said, once he was unshaken amidst the shouts of battle, or the cries of multitudes-he heard unmoved the crash of thunder, or the threats of the enraged tyrant;-now, the slightest breath distresses, and disturbs, and terrifies him; "he rises up at the voice of the bird," which would not, in his youth, have broken his slightest slumber, or interrupted his most trivial occupation; he knows not what it is, and is afraid.

In the vigour of life-what so charming to the senses as the sight of youth, and health, and beauty, crowning the genial banquet, or uniting in the jocund dance? And when to these are joined the delights of poetry, and the enchantments of music, the fascination is complete. The whole soul is ravished; every sense and faculty is taken captive. Every capacity of enjoyment is filled to the brim— heaped up and running over. Now, sad reverse!

The banquet, the dance, and the song are fledyouth, and health, and beauty, and genius, are no more. "All the daughters of music are brought low." The charm which surrounded them is gone. Their power is departed for ever.

The once fearless heart, which rejoiced to scale the lofty tower, or ascend the giddy precipice, or which tempted the still more dangerous heights of ambition, is now "afraid of that which is high." The adventurous spirit which once faced all the horrors of the desert, or braved the stormy deep, is now unable to undertake a Sabbath day's journey. "Fears are in the way." To cross a trifling rill, or step over a stone, are matters of difficulty and danger.

"The almond tree shall flourish."

Those who

The

have seen the blossoms of the almond tree, hanging like long lines of silver, will at once see the beauty of this allusion to the hoary head of age. sacred poet uses no vague, common, or imperfect similes. When his figures are examined closely, it is perceived that their minute propriety is not less remarkable than their extraordinary beauty.

It might appear that nothing could present us with so affecting a picture of that extreme debility which awaits man in his latter days than the expression, "The grasshopper shall be a burden." But the inspired penman has carried the climax still far