When this vile, foreign, dust, which smothers all
That travel earth’s deep vale, shall I shake off?
When shall my soul her incarnation quit,
And, readopted to thy bless’d embrace,
Obtain her apotheosis in Thee?
Dost think, Lorenzo, this is wandering wide?
No,’tis directly striking at the mark;
To wake thy dead devotion was my point;
And how I bless Night’s consecrating shades,
Which to a temple turn an universe; 1350