To an Aged Friend

Not long thy voice amongst us may be heard,
Servant of God!--thy day is almost done;
The charm now lingering in thy look and word
Is that which hangs about thy setting sun--
That which the meekness of decay hath won
Still from revering love. Yet doth the sense
Of life immortal--progress but begun--
Pervade thy mien with such clear eloquence,
That hope, not sadness, breathes from thy decline;
And the loved flowers which round thee smile farewell
Of more than vernal glory seem to tell,
By thy pure spirit touch’d with light divine;
While we, to whom its parting gleams are given,
Forget the grave in trustful thoughts of heaven.