Leap in joyance and eat his fill;
Sang I, sweet as the bright-billed ousel, a
Pæan of praise for thy pal, Methuselah.
Ah! he too in the Winter's grey days
Died of the usual chill.
He was old when the Reaper beckoned,
Ripe for the paying of Nature's debt;
Forty score—if he'd lived a second—
Years had flown, but he lingered yet;
But you had gladdened this vale of tears