II.

The old man felt the fresh air o'er him blowing Waving thin locks from musing temples pale; Felt the quick sun through cloud and azure going, And the light dance of leaves upon the gale, In that mysterious symbol-change of earth Which looks like death, though but restoring birth. Seasons return; for him shall not return Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn. Whatever garb the mighty mother wore, Nature to him was changeless evermore.-- List, not a sigh!--though fall'n on evil days, With darkness compass'd round--those sightless eyes Need not the sun; nightly he sees the rays, Nightly he walks the bowers of Paradise. High, pale, still, voiceless, motionless, alone, Death-like in calm as monumental stone, Lifting his looks into the farthest skies, He sate: And as when some tempestuous day Dies in the hush of the majestic eve, So on his brow--where grief has pass'd away, Reigns that dread stillness grief alone can leave.