My cup of life is broken at the full,
My lamp doth fade ere half its light is shed,
And whispereth angel sternly beautiful,
Whose shadowy wings have touched my aching head:
Before the greybeard shall the youth be dead!
Yet still, though perisheth my mortal part,
With thine and England’s glory shall be fed
The echoes roused by my enduring art,
And patriot strains of pride shall free my bursting heart!
V.