Rich death, that realises all my cares,
Toils, virtues, hopes; without it a chimera!
Death, of all pain the period, not of joy;
Joy’s source, and subject, still subsist unhurt; 520
One, in my soul; and one, in her great Sire;
Though the four winds were warring for my dust.
Yes, and from winds, and waves, and central night,
Though prison’d there, my dust too I reclaim
(To dust when drop proud nature’s proudest spheres),
And live entire. Death is the crown of life: 526