The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

Hide me from day's garish eye.

There swift return Diurnal, merely to officiate light Round this opacous earth, this punctual spot.

Among the writers of all ages, some deserve fame, and have it; others neither have nor deserve it; some have it, not deserving it; others, though deserving it, yet totally miss it, or have it not equal to their deserts.

And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?

See golden days, fruitful of golden deeds, With joy and love triumphing.

O sun, to tell thee how I hate thy beams That bring to my remembrance from what state I fell, how glorious once above thy sphere.