What marvel that he owned the force
Of late regret and vain remorse?
That spreading palm, whose boughs had made
Far stretching such an ample shade
For many a wanderer through life’s waste,
He had hewn down in guilty haste;
That fountain free, that springing well
Of goodness inexhaustible,
His hand had stopt it, ne’er again
To slake the thirst of weary men.