But perished;--feverish hope--drear discontent,
Impoisoning all possest--Oh! I have felt

"As spirits feel--yet not for man we mourn
Scarce o'er the silly bird in state were he,
That builds his nest, loves, sings the morn's return,
And sleeps at evening; save by aid of thee,

"Fame ne'er had roused, nor song her records kept
The gem, the ore, the marble breathing life,
The pencil's colours,--all in earth had slept,
Now see them mark with death his victim's strife.

"Man found thee death--but death and dull decay
Baffling, by aid of thee, his mastery proves;--
By mighty works he swells his narrow day
And reigns, for ages, on the world he loves.

"Yet what the price? with stings that never cease
Thou goad'st him on; and when, too keen the smart,
He fain would pause awhile--and signs for peace,
Food thou wilt have, or tear his victim heart."


XXXIII.

Thus Zophiel still,--"tho' now the infernal crew
Had gained by sin a privilege in the world,
Allayed their torments in the cool night dew,
And by the dim star-light again their wings unfurled."