His glory, his delight, thou shalt not die
While I can die for thee! Me, me alone,
The oracle demands—a wither’d stem,
Whose task, whose duty, is for him to die.
My race is run—the fulness of my years,
The faded hopes of age, and all the love
Which hath its dwelling in a father’s heart,
And the fond pity, half with wonder blent,
Inspired by thee, whose youth with heavenly gifts
So richly is endow’d;—all, all unite