My coal is spent, my iron gone;
The nails are driven—my work is done.
The last verses that Hayley wrote have more charm and delicacy than perhaps anything else among his works:
Ye gentle birds that perch aloof,
And smooth your pinions on my roof,
Preparing for departure hence
Ere winter's angry threats commence;
Like you, my soul would smooth her plume
For longer flights beyond the tomb.
May God, by whom is seen and heard