A worn-out man with wither’d limbs and lame,
His mind oppress’d with woes, and bent with age his frame.
Yes! old and grieved, and trembling with decay,
Was Allen landing in his native bay,
Willing his breathless form should blend with kindred clay.
In an autumnal eve he left the beach,
In such an eve he chanced the port to reach:
He was alone; he press’d the very place
Of the sad parting, of the last embrace:
There stood his parents, there retired the maid,