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Now shrinks in chilly mists his languid eye,
The star that crowned him beams no more on high:
So pale the Moon—by circling clouds o'erborne—
Fades from the heavens with dim and waning horn.
Now droop on earth the wings, through middle air
That wont so oft their buoyant freight to bear.
He feels his hour is come—another frame
Must soon be his—another, yet the same—
And, timely warn'd, betakes him to provide
Herbs, which the warmth of summer hills has dried,
And weaves a mass of rich Sabean bloom,
His future birth-place, and his present tomb:
And there he sits, and feebly to the Sun
Breathes in sweet strains his dying orison,
And prays the God for such a gift of fire,
As may new life, while it consumes, inspire.
Sol checks his course to mark the plaintive bird,
And soothes his votary with a gentle word.
"Yes, here lay down thy peaceful age awhile,
Re-born from this, misnamed thy funeral pile;
Put on the life which death confers once more,
With youth invigorate, from destruction soar:
Again thy mortal, wasted body leave,
A new beginning, a new form receive."
