Impress’d upon this breaking heart.
Visions dark and dread I see.
Chill’d is the life-blood in my breast.
I cannot pause—I may not rest:
I gaze upon futurity.
“My span of life is past, and gone:
My breath is spent, my course is done.
Oh! sound my lyre, one last sad strain!
This hand shall wake thy chords no more.
Thy sweetest notes were breath’d in vain: