How would the painter’s art in glory rise!
Changing—still changing! change must come to all
Beneath the sun; the sun which swiftly flies
On wheels of fire, enshrouded in his pall,
From his proud place on high, one day himself shall fall.
XII.
Slowly the tedious hours move along
Within the sick man’s chamber. On his face
Has gathered paleness. Pearly drops are hung
Around his pallid brow with mournful grace,