Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

Death is the quiet haven of us all.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

The dew was falling fast, the stars began to blink I heard a voice it said Drink, pretty creature, drink'

And when the stream Which overflowed the soul was passed away, A consciousness remained that it had left Deposited upon the silent shore Of memory images and precious thoughts That shall not die, and cannot be destroyed.

A power is passing from the earth.