The Approach of Age

George Crabbe (1754–1832)

From “Tales of the Hall”

SIX years had passed, and forty ere the six,

When Time began to play his usual tricks:

The locks once comely in a virgin’s sight,

Locks of pure brown, displayed the encroaching white;

The blood, once fervid, now to cool began,

And Time’s strong pressure to subdue the man.

I rode or walked as I was wont before,

But now the bounding spirit was no more;

A moderate pace would now my body heat,

A walk of moderate length distress my feet.

I showed my stranger guest those hills sublime,

But said, “The view is poor, we need not climb.”

At a friend’s mansion I began to dread

The cold neat parlor and the gay glazed bed;

At home I felt a more decided taste,

And must have all things in my order placed.

I ceased to hunt; my horses pleased me less,—

My dinner more; I learned to play at chess.

I took my dog and gun, but saw the brute

Was disappointed that I did not shoot.

My morning walks I now could bear to lose,

And blessed the shower that gave me not to choose.

In fact, I felt a languor stealing on;

The active arm, the agile hand, were gone;

Small daily actions into habits grew,

And new dislike to forms and fashions new.

I loved my trees in order to dispose;

I numbered peaches, looked how stocks arose;

Told the same story oft,—in short, began to prose.