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.