Deep on thy marble brow.
Vit. Then thou canst tell
By gazing on the wither’d rose, that there
Time, or the blight, hath work’d! Ay, this is in
Thy vision’s scope: but oh! the things unseen,
Untold, undreamt of, which like shadows pass
Hourly o’er that mysterious world, a mind
To ruin struck by grief! Yet doth my soul,
Far midst its darkness, nurse one soaring hope,
Wherein is bright vitality. ’Tis to see