Before the glassy eye grew dark,
What said he more? or said he aught?”—
“—But this—‘The pilgrim goes his way:—
Farewell the beauty of the moon!
Farewell the glory of the noon!
The home of rest my heart hath sought
So long in vain will soon be mine—
Soon will that heart, all quelled and cold,
Lie low aneath the trodden mould,
Which brings it Peace,—a welcome boon!