To read, in spirit, this fore-acted doom;
Which others neither can see, nor believe!
But laugh upon the threshold of the tomb;
As sports the summer-fly, whilst spiders weave
Their fateful nets! Well, let the earth resume
This failing garment of my flesh; I feel
My present life has not been without bloom,
Or fruits: Due time their flavour will reveal!
And if the Statesman’s sole reward hath been
Long years of wandering, seeking to conceal