His first and last career is done! On came the troop--they saw him stoop, They saw me strangely bound along His back with many a bloody thong. They stop--they start--they snuff the air, Gallop a moment here and there, Approach, retire, wheel round and round, 700 Then plunging back with sudden bound, Headed by one black mighty steed, Who seemed the Patriarch of his breed, Without a single speck or hair Of white upon his shaggy hide; They snort--they foam--neigh--swerve aside, And backward to the forest fly, By instinct, from a human eye. They left me there to my despair, Linked to the dead and stiffening wretch, 710 Whose lifeless limbs beneath me stretch, Relieved from that unwonted weight, From whence I could not extricate Nor him nor me--and there we lay, The dying on the dead! I little deemed another day Would see my houseless, helpless head. "And there from morn to twilight bound, I felt the heavy hours toil round, With just enough of life to see 720 My last of suns go down on me, In hopeless certainty of, mind, That makes us feel at length resigned To that which our foreboding years Present the worst and last of fears: Inevitable--even a boon, Nor more unkind for coming soon, Yet shunned and dreaded with such care, As if it only were a snare That Prudence might escape: 730 At times both wished for and implored, At times sought with self-pointed sword, Yet still a dark and hideous close To even intolerable woes, And welcome in no shape. And, strange to say, the sons of pleasure, They who have revelled beyond measure In beauty, wassail, wine, and treasure, Die calm, or calmer, oft than he Whose heritage was Misery. 740 For he who hath in turn run through All that was beautiful and new, Hath nought to hope, and nought to leave; And, save the future, (which is viewed Not quite as men are base or good, But as their nerves may be endued,) With nought perhaps to grieve: The wretch still hopes his woes must end, And Death, whom he should deem his friend, Appears, to his distempered eyes, 750 Arrived to rob him of his prize, The tree of his new Paradise. To-morrow would have given him all, Repaid his pangs, repaired his fall; To-morrow would have been the first Of days no more deplored or curst, But bright, and long, and beckoning years, Seen dazzling through the mist of tears, Guerdon of many a painful hour; To-morrow would have given him power 760 To rule--to shine--to smite--to save-- And must it dawn upon his grave?