The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife

To The Elysian Shades Dismiss My Soul, Where No Carnation Fades.

Oh, Blindness To The Future! Kindly Giv'n, That Each May Fill The Circle Mark'd By Heaven.

And Hence One Master-passion In The Breast, Like Aaron's Serpent, Swallows Up The Rest.

Some Judge Of Authors' Names, Not Works, And Then Nor Praise Nor Blame The Writings, But The Men.

Let Fortune Do Her Worst, Whatever She Makes Us Lose, So Long As She Never Makes Us Lose Our Honesty And Our Independence.