Their feather, and their froth, for endless toils:
They part with all for that which is not bread;
They mortify, they starve, on wealth, fame, power;
And laugh to scorn the fools that aim at more.
How must a spirit, late escaped from earth,—
Suppose Philander’s, Lucia’s, or Narcissa’s,—
The truth of things new-blazing in its eye,
Look back, astonish’d, on the ways of men,
Whose lives’ whole drift is to forget their graves!
And when our present privilege is past, 2400