We bleed, we tremble; we forget, we smile - The mind turns fool, before the cheek is dry
Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.
The man of wisdom is the man of years.
We wish our names eternally to live; Wild dream! which ne'er had haunted human thought, Had not our natures been eternal too.
Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.
Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.