Thunder-clouds may roll above him,
And the bolt may rend his oak:
Lyman lieth where no longer
He shall dread the lightning stroke.

Never to his father's hostel
Comes a kinsman or a guest;
Midnight calls for no more candles:
House and landlord both have rest.

Adam's love and Adam's trouble
Are a scarce-remembered tale;
No more wine-cups brightly bubble;
No more healths, nor cakes, nor ale.

On the broken hearth a dotard
Sits, and fancies foolish things;
And the poet weaves romances,
Which the maiden fondly sings,

All about the ancient hostel
With its legends and its oaks,
And the quaint old-bachelor brothers,
And their minstrelsy and jokes.

No man knows them any longer:
All are gone, and I remain
Reading, as it were, mine epitaph
On the rainbow-colored pane.

Blessings on them, dear initials!
Henry W., Daniel T.,
E. and L.:—I'll not interpret:
Let men wonder who they be.

Some are in their graves, and many
Buried in their books and cares;
In the tropics, in Archangel:
Our thoughts are no longer theirs.

God have mercy! all are sinful;
Christ, conform our lives to thine!
Keep us from all strife, ill-speaking,
Envy, and the curse of wine.

Fetch my steed! I cannot linger.
Buckley, quick! I must away.
Good old groom, take thou this nothing;
Millions could not make me stay.