SONNET III.

Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale

Of days departed. Time in his career

Arraigns not thee that the neglected year

Has past unheeded onward. To the vale

Of years thou journeyest. May the future road

Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend

Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend,

‘ Till full of days he reach the calm abode

Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age

Of Virtue. With such reverence we behold

The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old

That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage

Now like the monument of strength decayed

With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.