Or the evil visions hover and invade;
Here the bosom entertains its secret guest,
With the silent plaint of agony suppressed,
As unwelcome thoughts rise from the dust and mould,
Of the vanished years in pantomime unrolled,
In this borderland of rest.
Neither wakeful, nor in sentient repose,
Nor in apathy, complete and comatose;
As when Lethe with her mild nepenthic surge,
Doth in chaos of forgetfulness submerge,