Not all thy flushing suns are set, Herrick, as yet ; Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere. Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest As dead within the west ; Yet, the next morn, regild the fragrant east. Alas ! for me, that I have lost E'en all almost ; Sunk is my sight, set is my sun, And all the loom of life undone : The staff, the elm, the prop, the shelt'ring wall Whereon my vine did crawl, Now, now blown down ; needs must the old stock fall. Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive, In death I thrive : And like a phoenix re-aspire From out my nard and fun'ral fire ; And as I prune my feathered youth, so I Do mar'l how I could die When I had thee, my chief preserver, by. I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand Which makes me stand Now as I do, and but for thee I must confess I could not be. The debt is paid ; for he who doth resign Thanks to the gen'rous vine Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.