Page:Poems Sigourney, 1834.pdf/206

Rh For younger generations of bold thought To wear their harvest diadem, while we In the poor-hour-glass of our seventy years Scarce see the buds of some few plants of hopes, Ere we are laid beside them, dust to dust. Yet whatsoe'er his lot, in that dim age Of mystery, when the unwrinkled world had drank No deluge-cup of bitterness, whate'er Were earth's illusions to his dazzled eye, Death found him out at last, and coldly wrote, With icy pen on life's protracted scroll, Naught but this brief unflattering line—he died. Ye gay flower-gatherers on time's crumbling brink, This shall be said of you, howe'er ye vaunt Your long to-morrows in an endless line, Howe'er amid the gardens of your joy Ye hide yourselves, and bid the pale King pass, This shall be said of you, at last, he died; Oh, add one sentence more, he lived to God.