That Love is soothed and Hope again beguil’d;
Then comes the last—that must our Fate decide,
And there’s no Turning in this mortal Tide! 540
It’s come, is gone; nor is there much of strife—
Consenting nature yields the weary life.
Placed on his pillowed Chair Matilda by,
The Husband saw the dim and speechless Eye;
Felt the cold Hand, and said, “’Tis now a last;
This One dear Look and all will then be past;
She will precede me.”—Yet he wrongly guess’d: