So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,

Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed

To his great heart none other than a God!

I asked thee, "Give me immortality."

Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile,

Like wealthy men who care not how they give,

But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills,

And beat me down and marred and wasted me,

And though they could not end me, left me maimed

To dwell in presence of immortal youth,

Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. Can thy love,

Thy beauty, make amends, though even now,

Close over us, the silver star, thy guide,

Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears

To hear me? Let me go: take back thy gift:

Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all?

A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes

A glimpse of that dark world where I was born.

Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet,

Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing,

While Ilion like a mist rose into towers.

Yet hold me not forever in thine
East:

How can my nature longer mix with thine?

Coldly thy rosy shadows bathe me, cold

Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet

Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam

Floats up from those dim fields about the homes

Of happy men that have the power to die,

And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

Release me, and restore me to the ground;

Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave:

Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by

THE OLD MAN'S FUNERAL.

YE sigh not when the sun, his course fulfilled,

His glorious course, rejoicing earth and sky,

In the soft evening, when the winds are stilled,

Sinks where his islands of refreshment lie,

And leaves the smile of his departure spread

O'er the warm-colored heaven and ruddy mountain head.

Why weep ye then for him, who, having won

The bound of man's appointed years, at last,

Life's blessings all enjoyed, life's labors done,

Serenely to his final rest has passed;

While the soft memory of his virtues yet

Lingers like twilight hues, when the bright sun is set?