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The boat, and the barge, and the wave, have grown red; And the sunset has crimsoned the boughs over head: But the lamps are now shining, the colours are gone, And the garden lies shadowy, silent, and lone.

There are lights in the casements: how weary the ray That asks from the night-time the toils of the day! I fancy I see the brow bent o'er the page, Whose youth wears the paleness and wrinkles of age. The hour may be coming when fortune and fame May crown the endeavour, and honour the name: But the toil has been long that too early began; And the judge and the peer is a world-weary man.