The feeble wrap th’ athletic in his shroud;
And weeping fathers build their children’s tomb: 770
Me thine, Narcissa!—What though short thy date?
Virtue, not rolling suns, the mind matures.
That life is long, which answers life’s great end.
The time that bears no fruit, deserves no name;
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
In hoary youth Methusalems may die;
O how misdated on their flattering tombs!
Narcissa’s youth has lectured me thus far.