But strike the prelude of a loftier strain?
Or must the lyre on which my spirit lingers
Soon pause in silence, ne’er to sound again, 85
Though it might shake the Anarch Custom’s reign,
And charm the minds of men to Truth’s own sway,
Holier than was Amphion’s? I would fain
Reply in hope—but I am worn away,
And Death and Love are yet contending for their prey.
And what art thou? I know, but dare not speak: 91
Time may interpret to his silent years.