Before me, whose more years might crave
110A just precedence in the grave.
But heark! My pulse, like a soft drum,
Beats my approach, tells Thee I come;
And slow howe'er my marches be,
I shall at last sit down by Thee.
The thought of this bids me go on,
And wait my dissolution
With hope and comfort. Dear (forgive
The crime), I am content to live