VII.

Yet wherefore weep? Old age is but a tomb, A living hearse, slow creeping to the gloom And utter silence. He from age is freed Who meets the stroke of Death and rises thence Victor o’er every woe; his sure defence Is swift defeat; by that he doth succeed. Death is the poet’s friend—I speak it sooth; Death shall restore him to his golden youth, Unlock for him the portal of renown, And on Fame’s tablet write his verses down, For every age in endless time to read. With us Death’s quarrel is: he takes away Joy from our eyes—from this dark world the day— When other skies he opens to the poet’s ray.