Which prompts proud thought, and kindles high desire;
If, from her humble chamber in the dust, 809
While proud thought swells, and high desire inflames,
The poor worm calls us for her inmates there;
And, round us, Death’s inexorable hand
Draws the dark curtain close; undrawn no more.
“Undrawn no more!—Behind the cloud of death,
Once I beheld a sun; a sun which gilt
That sable cloud, and turn’d it all to gold:
How the grave’s alter’d! fathomless, as hell!