Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long — Even wondered at, because he dropped no sooner. Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.

Shame on the body for breaking down while the spirit perseveres.

He was exhaled; his great Creator drew His spirit, as the sun the morning dew.

No king nor nation one moment can retard the appointed hour.

Death only this mysterious truth unfolds, The mighty soul how small a body holds.

Death ends our woes, and the kind grave shuts up the mournful scene.