Freed from its mortal coil, to bliss on high;
    But nothing, to this hour, prayer, tear, or sigh,
    Whatever man could do, my hopes sustain: 
    And so indeed in justice should it be;
    Able to stay, who went and fell, that he
    Should prostrate, in his own despite, remain. 
    But, lo! the tender arms
    In which I trust are open to me still,
    Though fears my bosom fill
    Of others’ fate, and my own heart alarms,
    Which worldly feelings spur, haply, to utmost ill.

    One thought thus parleys with my troubled mind—­
    “What still do you desire, whence succour wait? 
    Ah! wherefore to this great,
    This guilty loss of time so madly blind? 
    Take up at length, wisely take up your part: 
    Tear every root of pleasure from your heart,
    Which ne’er can make it blest,
    Nor lets it freely play, nor calmly rest. 
    If long ago with tedium and disgust
    You view’d the false and fugitive delights
    With which its tools a treacherous world requites,
    Why longer then repose in it your trust,
    Whence peace and firmness are in exile thrust? 
    While life and vigour stay,
    The bridle of your thoughts is in your power: 
    Grasp, guide it while you may: 
    So clogg’d with doubt, so dangerous is delay,
    The best for wise reform is still the present hour.

    “Well known to you what rapture still has been
    Shed on your eyes by the dear sight of her
    Whom, for your peace it were
    Better if she the light had never seen;
    And you remember well (as well you ought)
    Her image, when, as with one conquering bound,
    Your heart in prey she caught,
    Where flame from other light no entrance found. 
    She fired it, and if that fallacious heat
    Lasted long years, expecting still one day,
    Which for our safety came not, to repay,
    It lifts you now to hope more blest and sweet,
    Uplooking to that heaven around your head
    Immortal, glorious spread;
    If but a glance, a brief word, an old song,
    Had here such power to charm
    Your eager passion, glad of its own harm,
    How far ’twill then exceed if now the joy so strong.”

    Another thought the while, severe and sweet,
    Laborious, yet delectable in scope,
    Takes in my heart its seat,
    Filling with glory, feeding it with hope;
    Till, bent alone on bright and deathless fame,
    It feels not when I freeze, or burn in flame,
    When I am pale or ill,
    And if I crush it rises stronger still. 
    This, from my helpless cradle, day by day,
    Has strengthen’d with my strength, grown with my growth,
    Till haply now one tomb must cover both: 
    When from the flesh the soul has pass’d away,
    No more this passion comrades it as here;
    For fame—­if, after death,
    Learning speak aught of me—­is but a breath: 
    Wherefore, because I fear
    Hopes to indulge which the next hour may chase,
    I would old error leave, and the one truth embrace.