Where London's column, pointing at the skies, Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies.
When much dispute has past, we find our tenets just the same as last.
Is not absence death to those who love?
Genius creates, and taste preserves.
Lulled in the countless chambers of the brain, our thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one, and in, what myriads rise!
A youth of frolic, an old age of cards.