Virtues the future years would yet unfold.
Thy words, thy archness, every turn and bow —
How sick at heart without them am I now!
Nay, little comfort, never more shall I
Behold thee and thy darling drollery.
What may I do but only follow on
Along the path where earlier thou hast gone.
And at its end do thou, with all thy charms,
Cast round thy father’s neck thy tender arms.