On into twilight within walls of stone, Stands for his life: there, on that awful day, } But guilty men Triumph not always. To his hearth again, He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all, -On the day destined for his funeral! Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, Her glory now, as ever her delight! } To her, methinks, a second Youth is given; An hour like this is worth a thousand passed And now once more where most he loved to be, In his own fields-breathing tranquillity— We hail him—not less happy, Fox, than thee Thee at St. Anne's so soon of Care beguiled, Playful, sincere, and artless as a child! Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray, Through the green leaves exploring, day by day. How oft from grove to grove, from seat to seat, I saw the sun go down !—Ah, then 'twas thine And where we sate (and many a halt we made) Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has tolled ! One who resembles thee. 'Tis the sixth hour. The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. } And such, his labour done, the calm He knows,* Whose footsteps we have followed. Round him glows An atmosphere that brightens to the last; The light, that shines, reflected from the Past, Among old books, old friends; Active in Thought and not unsought * At illa quanti sunt, animum tanquam emeritis stipendiis libidinis, ambitionis, contentionis, inimicitiarum, cupiditatum omnium, secum esse, secumque (ut dicitur) vivere ?-CIC. De Senectute. |