At the close of the day, when the hamlet is still And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, When nought but the torrent is heard on the hill And nought but the nightingale's song in the grove.
Ah! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!
And beauty immortal awakes from the tomb.
By the glare of false science betrayd,
That leads to bewilder, and dazzles to blind.
But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?
Oh when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?
He thought as a sage, though he felt as a man.
At the close of the day when the hamlet is still,
And mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove,
When naught but the torrent is heard on the hill,
And naught but the nightingales song in the grove.
Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.
Zealous, yet modest; innocent, though free;
Patient of toil, serene amidst alarms;
Inflexible in faith, invincible in arms.
Ah, who can tell how hard it is to climb
The steep where Fames proud temple shines afar?
What is a law, if those who make it
Become the forwardest to break it?
When squint-eyed Slander plies the unhallow'd tongue,
From poison'd maw when Treason weaves his line,
And Muse apostate (infamy to song!)
Grovels, low muttering, at Sedition's shrine.
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