Importless as a foam-bell's death. The world

And all its revolutions are now less

Within my chronicles, than is the ken

Of a star's orbit on the fines of space;

But like a mariner saved from the wreck

On this calm spot I stand, unscathed, secure

From the rough throbbings of the sea of strife,

And woe, and clamour, wherewith this world's life

Ebbs and declines unto the printless shore

Of death. O! blessed change, if there were one

To love me in this solitude, and make

Life beautiful. My soul is wearied out

With earth's fierce warfare, and its selfish ease;

The slights and coldness of the hollow crowds

That are its arbiters; the changeful face,

[Pg 4]

The upstart arrogance of base-born fools,

Who crown them with their golden dross, and deem

That the all-potent badge of sovereignty.

O thou, my heart! hast thou not framed for life

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