Blest is death that intervenes not In the sweet, sweet years of peace, But unto the brokenhearted, When they call him, brings release! Yet Death passes by the wretched, Shuts his ear and slumbers deep; Will not heed the cry of anguish, Will not close the eyes that weep. For, while yet inconstant Fortune Poured her gifts and all was bright, Death’s dark hour had all but whelmed me In the gloom of endless night. Now, because misfortune’s shadow Hath o’erclouded that false face, Cruel Life still halts and lingers, Though I loathe his weary race. Friends, why did ye once so lightly Vaunt me happy among men? Surely he who so hath fallen Was not firmly founded then.