As if, like objects pressing on the sight,
Death had advanced too near us to be seen: 610
Or, that life’s loan Time ripen’d into right;
And men might plead prescription from the grave;
Deathless, from repetition of reprieve.
Deathless? far from it! such are dead already;
Their hearts are buried, and the world their grave.
Tell me, some god! my guardian angel! tell,
What thus infatuates? what enchantment plants
The phantom of an age ’twixt us, and Death