At last he rais'd the swelling anthem high,
In dismal numbers seem'd he to complain;
The captive tribes that by Euphrates wept,515
Their song was jovial to his dreary strain.
130
That done, they plac'd the carcase in the tomb,
To dust and dull oblivion now resign'd,
Then turn'd the chariot tow'rd the House of Night,
Which soon flew off, and left no trace behind.520
131
But as I stoop'd to write the appointed verse,
Swifter than thought the airy scene decay'd;
Blushing the morn arose, and from the east
With her gay streams of light dispell'd the shade.
132
What is this Death, ye deep read sophists, say?—525
Death is no more than one unceasing change;
New forms arise, while other forms decay,
Yet all is Life throughout creation's range.
133
The towering Alps, the haughty Appenine,
The Andes, wrapt in everlasting snow,530
The Apalachian and the Ararat
Sooner or later must to ruin go.
134