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About this Poem 

From Ballads and Songs (London: Cassell and Company, 1896).

 

On a Very Old Woman

  LA MOTTE FOUQUÉ.

 "Und Du gingst einst, die Myrt' im Haare."

  And thou wert once a maiden fair,
    A blushing virgin warm and young:
  With myrtles wreathed in golden hair,
  And glossy brow that knew no care—
    Upon a bridegroom's arm you hung.

  The golden locks are silvered now,
    The blushing cheek is pale and wan;
  The spring may bloom, the autumn glow,
  All's one—in chimney corner thou
    Sitt'st shivering on.—

  A moment—and thou sink'st to rest!
  To wake perhaps an angel blest,
    In the bright presence of thy Lord.
  Oh, weary is life's path to all!
  Hard is the strife, and light the fall,
    But wondrous the reward!

this poem is in the public domain. 

this poem is in the public domain. 

William Makepeace Thackeray

William Makepeace Thackeray, born July 18, 1811, was an English writer best known for his novels, particularly The History of Henry Esmond, Esq. (The Mershon Company Publishers, 1852) and Vanity Fair (Bradbury and Evans, 1848). While in school, Thackeray began writing poems, which he published in a number of magazines, chiefly Fraser and Punch. He died on December 24, 1863.

by this poet

poem
  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
poem
  O TIM, did you hear of thim Saxons,
    And read what the peepers report?
  They're goan to recal the Liftinant,
    And shut up the Castle and Coort!

  Our desolate counthry of Oireland,
    They're bint, the blagyards, to desthroy,
  And now having murdthered our counthry,
    They're goin to kill the
poem
  Beside the old hall-fire—upon my nurse's knee,
  Of happy fairy days—what tales were told to me!
  I thought the world was once—all peopled with princesses,
  And my heart would beat to hear—their loves and their distresses:
  And many a quiet night,—in slumber sweet and deep,