With joy,—with grief, that healing hand I see;
Ah! too conspicuous! it is fix’d on high.
On high?—What means my phrensy? I blaspheme;
Alas! how low! how far beneath the skies!
The skies it form’d; and now it bleeds for me— 170
But bleeds the balm I want—yet still it bleeds;
Draw the dire steel—ah, no! the dreadful blessing
What heart or can sustain, or dares forego?
There hangs all human hope: that nail supports
The falling universe: that gone, we drop;