And age like hoary Winter, gloomy, grave,
Now silvers o’er sage Wisdom’s sacred head,
And o’er his bosom spreads the blossoms of the grave.
Now comes the last most awful scene of all---
Life’s glimmering landscape dim before the sight;
Death’s sable hand outspreads his sooty pall;
We humble---breathe a prayer---then sink in night!
Prepare, thou fluttering soul, prepare for death---
With dauntless foot to tread the beaten road;
And oh! when this frail clay resigns its fleeting breath,