Where faint heats smote him or fierce storms o’ertook;
There strain o’er deep’ning woods at noonday dark,
Where his false steps their destin’d course forsook;
Pond’ring the change and chances of the day,
As warning eve prepares her veil to close,
Serious, he now proceeds with short survey,
Expecting night’s dark hour, and hoping calm repose:
So I look back on more than sixty years,
In life’s sequester’d walks obscurely spent,
Where tho’ its trophied head no column rears,