To the Venerable General Gaines

Though Time has silvered o’er thy honored head,
And left some traces on thy gallant form,
Upon thy soul no hoar-frost has he shed,
Nor chilled the heart that yet beats true and warm.

And he, in whom the glow of early feeling,
Youth’s fire and ardor, are not dimmed and cold,
Who still life’s morning freshness is revealing,—
Howe’er Time’s record stands, can ne’er grow old.

The fabled fountain of immortal youth,
That Ponce de Leon sought with such unrest,
In far-off southern isles, thou’st found in truth;
Its living waters gush within thy breast.