The mists of the winter may mingle with rain, 10
He may plough it with labour, and sow it in sorrow,
And sigh while he fears he has sowed it in vain;
He may die ere his children shall reap in their gladness,
But the blithe harvest-home shall remember his claim;
And their jubilee-shout shall be softened with sadness, 15
While they hallow the goblet that flows to his name.
Though anxious and timeless his life was expended,
In foils for our Country preserved by his care,
Though he died ere one ray o’er the nations ascended,