All I have touched resolves in dust away—
So on the wasted heath the lightning’s ray
Sinks, its own ruins nigh.
Time? ’tis no more.—Fame?—What is to the sage
This echo vain from age transferred to age?
This name—the toy of centuries yet to dawn?
Ye who would promise the far future’s reign,
Hear—hear my harp’s last utterings.—’Tis in vain!
With the gale’s sweep they’re gone!
Ah! yield to craving death a hope more meet!