And thou art grown old, and thy beauty is fled,
And the hey-day of life and enjoyment is o'er :
On thy once nut-brown locks Time his snow-show'r hath shed,
And thine eyes are grown dim, and thou now art fourscore.

Yet think not we love thee the less, for the set
Of the sun of thy beauty, that once shone so fair ;
That orb is below the horizon,- and yet
Its beams shed a lustre and brilliancy there.

The morning may shine all unclouded and bright,
And the sun in his glory all fair may arise ;
But it has not the glow that the farewell of light
Can shed on the breast of the evening skies.

And so, tho' the gay face of beauty is flown,
And the joys of thy youth are all faded away ;
The remembrance of kind acts is over thee thrown,
And angels shall hail thee to mansions of day.