XX.
What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame
Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye,
The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came?
Ours is that loss—and thou wert blest to die!
Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years,
To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast;
But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears,
And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last!
And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone,
Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone.