Why, like the hateful bug you kill,
Did you not crush me when you could?

Or better, teach me ways and skill
To labor for the common good?

The ugly grub an ant may end,
If sheltered from the cold and fed.

You might have had me for a friend: 
Old tramp,—­I die your enemy instead.

Translated for the ‘World’s Best Literature.’

FIFTY YEARS

(ClNQUANTE ANS)

     Wherefore these flowers? floral applause? 
       Ah, no, these blossoms came to say
     That I am growing old, because
       I number fifty years to-day. 
     O rapid, ever-fleeting day! 
       O moments lost, I know not how! 
     O wrinkled cheek and hair grown gray! 
          Alas, for I am fifty now!

     Sad age, when we pursue no more—­
       Fruit dies upon the withering tree: 
     Hark! some one rapped upon my door. 
       Nay, open not.  ’Tis not for me—­
     Or else the doctor calls.  Not yet
       Must I expect his studious bow. 
     Once I’d have called, “Come in, Lizzette”—­
          Alas, for I am fifty now!

     In age what aches and pains abound. 
       The torturing gout racks us awhile;
     Blindness, a prison dark, profound;
       Or deafness that provokes a smile. 
     Then Reason’s lamp grows faint and dim
       With flickering ray.  Children, allow
     Old Age the honor due to him—­
          Alas, for I am fifty now!

     Ah, heaven! the voice of Death I know,
       Who rubs his hands in joyous mood;
     The sexton knocks and I must go—­
       Farewell, my friends the human brood! 
     Below are famine, plague, and strife;
       Above, new heavens my soul endow: 
     Since God remains, begin, new life! 
       Alas, for I am fifty now!

     But no, ’tis you, sweetheart, whose youth,
       Tempting my soul with dainty ways,
     Shall hide from it the sombre truth,
       This incubus of evil days. 
     Springtime is yours, and flowers; come then,
       Scatter your roses on my brow,
     And let me dream of youth again—­
       Alas, for I am fifty now!

     Translation of Walter Learned.

     THE GARRET

     With pensive eyes the little room I view,
       Where in my youth I weathered it so long,
     With a wild mistress, a stanch friend or two,
       And a light heart still breaking into song;
     Making a mock of life, and all its cares,
       Rich in the glory of my rising sun: 
     Lightly I vaulted up four pair of stairs,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one.

     Yes; ’tis a garret—­let him know’t who will—–­
       There was my bed—­full hard it was and small;
     My table there—­and I decipher still
       Half a lame couplet charcoaled on the wall. 
     Ye joys, that Time hath swept with him away,
       Come to mine eyes, ye dreams of love and fun: 
     For you I pawned my watch how many a day,
       In the brave days when I was twenty-one!