And Father, Son, and Paraclete invoked above my head.
III.
Of all the congregation who looked in reverence on,
The elders and the blooming youth, each worshipper was gone;
And he, with hairs of winter, whose office ’twas to lave
My baby brow, and name my name, was hidden in the grave!
IV.
What years have passed of sorrow, that hour and this between!
What moments of enjoyment in that interval I’ve seen!
I wept that I had measured the half of being’s track;