Through this wide waste of worlds! this vista vast,
All sanded o’er with suns; suns turn’d to night
Before thy feeblest beam—Look down—down—down,
On a poor breathing particle in dust,
Or, lower, an immortal in his crimes. 2315
His crimes forgive! forgive his virtues, too!
Those smaller faults, half converts to the right.
Nor let me close these eyes, which never more
May see the sun (though night’s descending scale
Now weighs up morn), unpitied, and unblest!