The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.
In solitude, where we are least alone.
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
Who then will explain the explanation?
Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.