But like a cloudless morn, thy period passed,
Bright with superior virtues to the last.
When way-worn travellers, at day’s decline,
See yon grand orb with matchless lustre shine,
Urged by a sudden impulse of delight,
Heedless they wander of approaching night:
Till deeper shades o’erspread their devious way,
And every pleasure vanishes with day.
Then, Whitaker, true votaries of woe!
Robb’d of thy lustre, whither shall we go,