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The ruins of himself! now worn away With age, yet still majestic in decay.

A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.

And every eye Gaz'd as before some brother of the sky.

A generous heart repairs a slanderous tongue.

Whatever day Makes man a slave, takes half his worth away.

If yet not lost to all the sense of shame.

A happier lot were mine, If I must lose thee, to go down to earth, For I shall have no hope when thou art gone,-- Nothing but sorrow. Father have I none, And no dear mother.

Sinks my sad soul with sorrow to the grave.

Bursts as a wave that from the clouds impends, And swell'd with tempests on the ship descends; White are the decks with foam; the winds aloud Howl o'er the masts, and sing through every shroud: Pale, trembling, tir'd, the sailors freeze with fears; And instant death on every wave appears.

Soft as some song divine, thy story flows.

I hate To tell again a tale once fully told.

And what so tedious as a twice-told tale.

Like strength is felt from hope, and from despair.

A mass enormous! which, in modern days No two of earth's degenerate sons could raise.

Strong are her sons, though rocky are her shores.

And taste The melancholy joys of evils pass'd, For he who much has suffer'd, much will know.

Yet, taught by time, my heart has learned to glow For other's good, and melt at other's woe.

No season now for calm, familiar talk.

Accept these grateful tears! for thee thy flow, For thee, that ever felt another's woe!

The windy satisfaction of the tongue.