Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine Hewn on Norwegian hills to be the mast Of some great ammiral were but a wand, He walk'd with to support uneasy steps Over the burning marle.

For what can war, but endless war, still breed?

Him that yon soars on golden wing, guiding the fiery-wheelèd throne, the Cherub Contemplation.

Where all life dies death lives.

Tears such as angels weep.

These evils I deserve, and more . . . . Justly, yet despair not of his final pardon, Whose ear is ever open, and his eye Gracious to re-admit the suppliant.