'Tis Morn—and o'er his altered features play

The beams—without the Hope of yesterday.

What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing

O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt;

While sets that Sun, and dews of Evening melt,

Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffened limb,

Refreshing earth—reviving all but him!