Lethe, the river of oblivion, rolls his watery labyrinth, which whoso drinks forgets both joy and grief.

Did I request thee, Maker, from my clay To mould me man? Did I solicit thee From darkness to promote me?

Execute their airy purposes.

Virtue hath no tongue to check vice's pride.

Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.

Thus with the year Seasons return; but not to me returns Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, Or sight of vernal bloom or summer's rose, Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine; But cloud instead, and ever-during dark Surrounds me; from the cheerful ways of men Cut off, and for the book of knowledge fair Presented with a universal blank Of Nature's works, to me expung'd and raz'd, And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

Where no hope is left, is left no fear.