"All perish with the using."
-- Colossians, 2:22.

The sparkling eye that rul'd the heart, hath lost its magic beam,
And in its socket heavily like waning lamp doth gleam.
The wearied ear remits its toil, rejects the music strain,
And with the folly of the world no longer loads the brain.

The hand, that with untiring deeds did mark the days of old,
Now trembleth in its feeble grasp the water-cup to hold.
The foot no more o'er hill and dale doth keep its vigorous way,
but on the cushioned sofa rests, a prisoner, day by day.

Dim Memory, with a wrinkled brow, is faltering o'er the page
On which she register'd her gains, from infancy to age.
Even Fancy faileth in her skill o'er fairy-land to soar,
And sadly folds a broken wing, to ride the blast no more.

Yet the sweet spirit's love to man, in God its fearless trust,
Its zeal to keep a Saviour's law, these fade not in the dust,
These perish not with use, but grow like beaten gold more bright,
The deathless children of the skies, that heavenward take their flight.