Still one by one they left and fared
to the far misty thither side;

And now the last hath slipt away
yon drear Death-desert to explore,
And now one Pilgrim worn and lorn
still lingers on the lonely shore.

Yes, Life in youth-tide standeth still;
in manhood streameth soft and slow;
See, as it nears the 'abysmal goal
how fleet the waters flash and flow!

And Deaths are twain; the Deaths we see
drop like the leaves in windy Fall;
But ours, our own, are ruined worlds,
a globe collapst, last end of all.

We live our lives with rogues and fools,
dead and alive, alive and dead,
We die 'twixt one who feels the pulse
and one who frets and clouds the head:

And,--oh, the Pity!--hardly conned
the lesson comes its fatal term;
Fate bids us bundle up our books,
and bear them bod'ily to the worm:

Hardly we learn to wield the blade
before the wrist grows stiff and old;