Bending beneath the burden of his care;
His robes neglected, and his head was bare;
Decrepid winter, in the yearly ring,
Thus slowly creeps, to meet the blooming spring:
Downward he cast a melancholy look;
Thrice turn'd, to hide his grief; then faintly spoke:
"Now deep in years, and forward in decay,
That axe can only rob me of a day;
For thee, my soul's desire! I can't refrain;
And shall my tears, my last tears, flow in vain?