Friend of my later years, whose thoughts are set
To noble ends, despising the pursuit
Of vices which the instinct of the brute,
Incorporate in man, contends for yet;—
Who out of boyhood’s slavery and fret
Could issue like a sword-blade from its sheath,
Resolved by high endeavor to bequeath
Some good that future times may not forget,—
Press on, thy better fortune leads the way,
And thine is still the sesame of youth,
To which the door of many a hidden truth
Shall open,—so I dare to prophesy,—
And ancient Error, stubborn and uncouth,
Shall own thy strength and rue thy natal day.