And all the toil of the long past way:
But O each pang, that wakes with morn’s first ray,
More piercing wounds my breast,
When heaven’s eternal light sinks crimson in the west!
His burning wheels when downward Phœbus bends,
And leaves the world to night, its lengthened shade
Each towering mountain o’er the vale extends;
The thrifty peasant shoulders light his spade,
With sylvan carol gay and uncouth note,
Bidding his cares upon the wild winds float—