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Now all is gloom and darkness. Emblem fit
Of human joys, that dazzle on the sight,
Then fade, and vanish, and are seen no more.
And yet, in such a silent hour as this,
So calm and placid, the full soul delights
To dwell on what is past, or most of all
To hold sweet converse with some absent friend
Belov'd, departed, and beheld no more.
To such a friend my pensive spirit flies,
It seeks her in the tomb. Worn with the cares
Of this hard life, and weary with the weight
Of more than fourscore years, her head reclines
Upon the couch, which nature has prepar'd
For all her sons. White were her scatter'd locks
With the cold snows of age, and deep her brow
Was furrow'd with the heavy touch of care,
Before these eyes had open'd on the light.
But yet no boasted grace, or symmetry
Of form or feature, not the bloom of youth,
Or blaze of beauty, ever could awake
Within my soul that pure and hallow'd joy
So often felt when gazing on that eye
Now clos'd in death. Nor could the boasted pomp
Of eloquence, which seizes on the brain
Of mad enthusiasm, emulate the theme
So often flowing from those aged lips,
