Its ample page various as human life, The pomp, the woe, the bustle, and the strife! But nothing lasts. In Autumn at his plough Met and solicited, behold him now Leaving that humbler sphere his fathers knew, The sphere that Wisdom loves, and Virtue too; They who subsist not on the vain applause Misjudging man now gives and now withdraws. 'Twas morn-the sky-lark o'er the furrow sung As from his lips the slow consent was wrung; As from the glebe his fathers tilled of old, The plough they guided in an age of gold, Down by the beech-wood side he turned away :And now behold him in an evil day Serving the State again-not as before, Not foot to foot, the war-whoop at his door, And every charm of natural eloquence, Careless of blame while his own heart approves, Careless of ruin-(" For the general good Stands for his life: there, on that awful day, But guilty men Triumph not always. To his hearth again, Again with honour to his hearth restored, Lo, in the accustomed chair and at the board, Thrice greeting those who most withdraw their claim, (The lowliest servant calling by his name) He reads thanksgiving in the eyes of all, All met as at a holy festival! -On the day destined for his funeral! Lo, there the Friend, who, entering where he lay, Breathed in his drowsy ear" Away, away ! "Take thou my cloak-Nay, start not, but obey 66 Take it and leave me." And the blushing Maid, Who thro' the streets as thro' a desert strayed; And, when her dear, dear Father passed along, Would not be held but bursting through the throng, Halberd and battle-axe-kissed him o'er and o'er ; And oh, how changed at once-no heroine here, Her glory now, as ever her delight! To her, methinks, a second Youth is given ; An hour like this is worth a thousand passed In pomp or ease-'Tis present to the last! Years glide away untold-Tis still the same! As fresh, as fair as on the day it came! And now once more where most he loved to be, We hail him not less happy, Fox, than thee! Thee, who wouldst watch a bird's nest on the spray, I saw the sun go down!-Ah, then 'twas thine Shakspeare's or Dryden's-thro' the chequered shade And where we sate (and many a halt we made) And in thy grand and melancholy tone, Some splendid passage not to thee unknown, Fit theme for long discourse-Thy bell has tolled! -But in thy place among us we behold One who resembles thee. 'Tis the sixth hour. The village-clock strikes from the distant tower. The ploughman leaves the field; the traveller hears, And to the inn spurs forward. Nature wears Her sweetest smile; the day-star in the west * 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, At illa quanti sunt, animum tanquam emeritis stipendiis libidinis, ambitionis, contentionis, inimicitiarum, cupiditatum omnium, secum esse, secumque (ut dicitur) vivere ?-Cic. De Senectute. + Hinc ubi jam emissum caveis ad sidera cœli |