e,
Which hovers o'er me, quench th' ethereal fire;
Canst thou, O Night! indulge one labour more? 20
One labour more indulge! then sleep, my strain! 21
Till, haply, waked by Raphael's golden lyre,
Where night, death, age, care, crime, and sorrow, cease;
To bear a part in everlasting lays;
Though far, far higher set, in aim, I trust,
Symphonious to this humble prelude here.
Has not the Muse asserted pleasures pure,
Like those above; exploding other joys?
Weigh what was urged, Lorenzo! fairly weigh;
And tell me, hast thou cause to triumph still? 30
I think, thou wilt forbear a boast so bold.
But if, beneath the favour of mistake,
Thy smile's sincere; not more sincere can be
Lorenzo's smile, than my compassion for him.
The sick in body call for aid; the sick
In mind are covetous of more disease;
And when at worst, they dream themselves quite well.
To know ourselves diseased, is half our cure.
When Nature's blush by Custom is wiped off,
And Conscience, deaden'd by repeated strokes, 40
Has into manners naturalized our crimes;
The curse of curses is, our curse to love;
To triumph in the blackness of our guilt
(As Indians glory in the deepest jet),
And throw aside our senses with our peace.
But grant no guilt, no shame, no least alloy;
Grant joy and glory quite unsullied shone;
Yet, still, it ill deserves Lorenzo's heart.
No joy, no glory, glitters in thy sight,
But, through the thin partition of an hour, 50
I see its sables wove by destiny;
And that in sorrow buried; this, in shame;
While howling furies wring the doleful knell;
And Conscience, now so soft thou scarce canst hear 54
Her whisper, echoes her eternal peal.
Where, the prime actors of the last year's scene;
Their port so proud, their buskin, and their plume?
How many sleep, who kept the world awake
With lustre, and with noise! has Death proclaim'd
A truce, and hung his sated lance on high?
'Tis brandish'd still; nor shall the present year
Be more tenacious of her human leaf, 62
Or spread of feeble life a thinner fall.
But needless monuments to wake the thought;
Life's gayest scenes speak man's mortality;
Though in a style more florid, full as plain,
As mausoleums, pyramids, and tombs.
What are