For while eternal ages ceaseless roll,
In realms above—or in the shades below,
No fears shall chill—no flatt’ring hopes console;
No change shall come, except that bliss or woe
More blissful or more woful still shall ever grow.
XI.
’Tis sunset. Fleecy clouds of rosy light
With brilliant hues do tinge the western skies!
The sun has left a track of radiance bright!
Could mortal pencil catch those splendid dyes,