And life flies on imperfect, unenjoyed,
And death untimely meets thee, ere thy soul,
Cloyed with the banquet, is prepared to rise.
Leave, then, to others bliss thy years should shun;
Come, cheerful leave it, since still leave thou must.’
Justly, I deem, might Nature thus reprove:
For, through creation, old to young resigns,
And this from that matures; nor aught descends
To the dread gulfs, the fancied shades of hell.
The mass material must survive entire