ON SEEING MRS. K—— B——, AGED UPWARDS OF EIGHTY, NURSE AN INFANT

A sight like this might find apology In worlds unsway'd by our Chronology; As Tully says, (the thought's in Plato)— "To die is but to go to Cato." Of this world Time is of the essence,— A kind of universal presence; And therefore poets should have made him Not only old, as they've pourtray'd him, But young, mature, and old—all three In one—a sort of mystery— ('Tis hard to paint abstraction pure.) Here young—there old—and now mature— Just as we see some old book-print, Not to one scene its hero stint; But, in the distance, take occasion To draw him in some other station. Here this prepost'rous union seems A kind of meeting of extremes. Ye may not live together. Mean ye To pass that gulf that lies between ye Of fourscore years, as we skip ages In turning o'er historic pages? Thou dost not to this age belong: Thou art three generations wrong: Old Time has miss'd thee: there he tarries! Go on to thy contemporaries! Give the child up. To see thee kiss him Is a compleat anachronism. Nay, keep him. It is good to see Race link'd to race, in him and thee. The child repelleth not at all Her touch as uncongenial, But loves the old Nurse like another— Its sister—or its natural mother; And to the nurse a pride it gives To think (though old) that still she lives With one, who may not hope in vain To live her years all o'er again!