A plaintive sonnet flowed from Milton's pen When time had stolen his three and twentieth year: Say, shall not I, then, shed one tuneful tear, Robbed by the thief of three-score years and ten? No! for the foes of all life-lengthened men, Trouble and toil, approach not yet too near; Reason, meanwhile, and health, and memory dear Hold unimpaired their weak yet wonted reign. Still round my sheltered lawn I pleased can stray; Still trace my sylvan blessings to their spring: Being of beings! yes, that silent lay Which musing gratitude delights to sing, Still to thy sapphire throne shall faith convey, And hope, the cherub of unwearied wing.
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