Warn’d by the languor of life’s evening ray,
At length have housed me in an humble shed;
Where, future wandering banish’d from my thought,
And waiting, patient, the sweet hour of rest,
I chase the moments with a serious song.
Song soothes our pains; and age has pains to soothe.
When age, care, crime, and friends embraced at heart,
Torn from my bleeding breast, and death’s dark shade,
Which hovers o’er me, quench th’ ethereal fire;
Canst thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? 20