THE OLD BEAU

By Edgar Fawcett

How cracked and poor his laughter rings,

How dulled his eye, once flashing warm,

But still a courtly pathos clings

About his bent and withered form.

To-night, where mirth and music dwells,

His wrinkled cheek, his locks of snow,

Gleam near the grandsons of the belles

He smiled on forty years ago!

We watch him here, and half believe

Our gaze may witness, while he prates,

Death, like a footman, touch his sleeve

And tell him that the carriage waits.