Epitaph upon the Year 1806

'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses,
With the dust of dead ages to mix;
Time's charnel for ever encloses
The year Eighteen hundred and six!

Though many may question thy merit,
I duly thy dirge will perform,
Content, if thy heir but inherit
Thy portion of sunshine and storm!

My blame and my blessing thou sharest,
For black were thy moments in part,
But O! thy fair days were the fairest
That ever have shone on my heart.

If thine was a gloom the completest
That death's darkest cypress could throw,
Thine, too, was a garland the sweetest
That life in full blossom could show!

One hand gave the balmy corrector
Of ills which the other had brew'd;
One draught of thy chalice of nectar
All taste of thy bitters subdued.

'Tis gone, with its thorns and its roses!
With mine tears more precious will mix,
To hallow this midnight which closes,
The year Eighteen hundred and six.