Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.
Morn, Wak'd by the circling hours, with rosy hand Unbarr'd the gates of light.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night, If better thou belong not to the dawn.
Justice divine Mends not her slowest pace for prayers or cries.
And what is faith, love, virtue unassayed Alone, without exterior help sustained?
The spirit of man, which God inspired, cannot together perish with this corporeal clod.