Its splendor's lost, its polish vain,
Till some bold hand the steel sustain.
Why have my days been stretched by fate,
To see the vile and vicious great—
While I, who led the race so long,
Am last and meanest of the throng?
Ah, why has death so long delayed
To wrap me in his friendly shade,
Left me to wander thus alone,
When all my heart held dear is gone!