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.