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And fail; as these green fan‐like leaves of fern
Will wither at the touch of Autumn's frost.
Yet there are those, whose patient pity still
Hears my long murmurs; who, unwearied, try
With lenient hands to bind up every wound
My wearied spirit feels, and bid me go
"Right onward7[1]"—a calm votary of the Nymph,
Who, from her adamantine rock, points out
To conscious rectitude the rugged path,
That leads at length to Peace!—Ah! yes, my friends
Peace will at last be mine; for in the Grave
Is Peace—and pass a few short years, perchance
A few short months, and all the various pain
I now endure shall be forgotten there,
And no memorial shall remain of me,
Save in your bosoms; while even your regret
