And urge Philander’s posthumous advice,
From topics yet unbroach’d?——
But, oh! I faint! my spirits fail!—Nor strange!
So long on wing, and in no middle clime!
To which my great Creator’s glory call’d:
And calls—but, now, in vain. Sleep’s dewy wand
Has stroked my drooping lips, and promises
My long arrear of rest; the downy god
(Wont to return with our returning peace)
Will pay, ere long, and bless me with repose. 2180