XV.

And his gray hairs, in happier times, might well To their last pillow silently have gone, As melts a wreath of snow. But who shall tell How life may task the spirit? He was one Who from its morn a freeman’s work had done, And reap’d his harvest, and his vintage press’d, Fearless of wrong; and now, at set of sun, He bow’d not to his years, for on the breast Of a still chainless land he deem’d it much to rest.