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 tranquillityWe 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. |