The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath
 For him, the fair betrothéd Youth, who lies
 Cold in the narrow dwelling, or the cries
With which a Mother wails her darling's death,
These from our nature's common impulse spring,
Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piléd earth
 Which hides the sheeted corse of grey-hair'd Worth,
 If droops the soaring Youth with slacken'd wing;
If he recall in saddest minstrelsy
 Each tenderness bestow'd, each truth imprest,
Such grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety!
And from the Almighty Father shall descend
 Comforts on his late evening, whose young breast
Mourns with no transient love the Agéd Friend.