Unworn, undebased, undecayed,
Mournfully grating, the gates
Of the city of death have forever closed,—
Him, I count him, well-starred.
EARLY DEATH AND FAME.
For him who must see many years,
I praise the life which slips away
Out of the light, and mutely; which avoids
Fame, and her less fair followers, envy, strife,
Stupid detraction, jealousy, cabal,
Insincere praises; which descends
The quiet mossy track to age.
But when immature death
Beckons too early the guest
From the half-tried banquet of life,
Young, in the bloom of his days;
Leaves no leisure to press,
Slow and surely, the sweets
Of a tranquil life in the shade,—
Fuller for him be the hours!
Give him emotion, though pain!
Let him live, let him feel, I have lived.
Heap up his moments with life!
Triple his pulses with fame!
PHILOMELA.
Hark! ah, the nightingale—
