And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
Sorrow's faded form, and solitude behind.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
We frolic while 'tis May.