Not to thee Bedford mournful is the tale
 Of days departed. Time in his career
 Arraigns not thee that the neglected year
 Has past unheeded onward. To the vale
 Of years thou journeyest. May the future road
 Be pleasant as the past! and on my friend
 Friendship and Love, best blessings! still attend,
 'Till full of days he reach the calm abode
 Where Nature slumbers. Lovely is the age
 Of Virtue. With such reverence we behold
 The silver hairs, as some grey oak grown old
 That whilome mock'd the rushing tempest's rage
 Now like the monument of strength decayed
With rarely-sprinkled leaves casting a trembling shade.