And while the shadows round his path descend,
And down the vale of age his footsteps tend,
Peace o’er his bosom sheds her soft control,
And throngs of gentlest memories charm the soul;
Then, weaned from earth, he turns his steadfast eye
Beyond the grave, whose verge he falters nigh,
Surveys the brightening regions of the blest,
And, like a wearied pilgrim, sinks to rest.
Willis G. Clark.
Oh, when life’s sunset draws around me,