Who has not wept the wrongs of aged Lear
By his ungrateful daughter turned adrift?
Hear him, ye elements!—they cannot hear,
Nor can the winds restore his simple gift,
But One there is, a child of nature meek,
Who comes her sire to seek;
And he, recovering sense, upon her breast
Leans smilingly, and sinks into a { happy/passing} rest.
Stanza 7
{Honoured, for ever honoured be the page, }