When to the common rest that crowns our days, Called in the noon of life, the good man goes, Or full of years, and ripe inwisdom, laysHis silver temples in their lastrepose;When, o'er the buds of youth, the death-wind blows, And blights the fairest; whenour bitter tearsStream, as the eyes of those thatlove us close, We think on what they were, with many fearsLest goodness die with them, and leave the coming yea