Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.