Such as leave traces on the mien,
And o’er the roses of our prime
Breathe other blights than those of time.
Yet seems his spirit wild and proud,
By grief unsoften’d and unbow’d.
Oh! there are sorrows which impart
A sternness foreign to the heart,
And, rushing with an earthquake’s power,
That makes a desert in an hour,
Rouse the dread passions in their course,