Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.

Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.

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

Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.

To live a life half dead, a living death.

The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.