From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.

In discourse more sweet; For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense. Others apart sat on a hill retir'd, In thoughts more elevate, and reason'd high Of providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate, Fix'd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute; And found no end, in wand'ring mazes lost.

Few sometimes may know, when thousands err.

And that must end us, that must be our cure: To be no more. Sad cure! For who would lose, Though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity, To perish, rather, swallowed up and lost In the wide womb of uncreated night Devoid of sense and motion?

Let her (Truth) and Falsehood grapple; who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?

All is not lost, the unconquerable will, and study of revenge, immortal hate, and the courage never to submit or yield.

Beyond is all abyss, eternity, whose end no eye can reach.