A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancies, with his garland and singing robes about him.

Suffering for truth's sake Is fortitude to highest victory, And to the faithful death the gate of life.

And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that heaven doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew, Till old experience to attain To something like prophetic strain.

Confusion heard his voice, and wild uproar Stood ruled, stood vast infinitude confined; Till at his second bidding darkness fled, Light shone, and order from disorder sprung.

Hope allows us to bid farewell to fear.

Sweet bird, that shun the noise of folly, most musical, most melancholy!

To live a life half dead, a living death.