117
SONNET III.
Not to thee, Bedford! mournful is the tale
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
Has past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journiest; may the future road
Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend
'Till full of days he reach the calm abode
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
Of Virtue: with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage,
Now like the monument of strength decayed
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.
1794.
Of days departed. Time in his career
Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
Has past unheeded onward. To the vale
Of years thou journiest; may the future road
Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend
Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend
'Till full of days he reach the calm abode
Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
Of Virtue: with such reverence we behold
The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old
That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage,
Now like the monument of strength decayed
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.
1794.
