He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?

Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

Hear all ye angels, progeny of light, Thrones, dominations, princedoms, virtues, powers.

Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe.

Should God create another Eve, and I Another Rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart; no no, I feel The Link of Nature draw me: Flesh of Flesh, Bone of my Bone thou art, and from thy State Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.

And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.