Each morrow was the echo of to-day.
Thus free from cares and children, noise and wife,
Passed his smooth moments; till, by Fate's command,
A lethargy assailed his harmless life,
And checked his course, and shook his loitering sand,
Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,
And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,
Beneath the centre aisle interred he lies,
With these few lines engraved upon his tomb.