And mourn those pleasures fled for aye.
Alas! that he, whose days were spent
In catering for the public weal,
Should, in the eventide of life,
Be destin'd sad distress to feel.
An ever open heart and hand,
With ear ne'er closed to sorrow's tale,
Exalts the man, and o'er his faults
Draws the impenetrable veil.
L. M. Thornton.