Night falls—my pulse beats low:
Seek not to quicken, to restore—
Joy is in every pang. I go, I go!
“I feel thy tears, I feel thy breath,
I meet thy fond look still;
Keen is the strife of love and death;
Faint and yet fainter grows my bosom’s thrill.
“Yet swells the tide of rapture strong,
Though mists o’ershade mine eye!
—Sing, Pæan! sing a conqueror’s song!