Ay, one by one, they all have perished—
Yet no—not all—there yet is death!
There yet remains to choose some spot,
Where, far from man and scorn, to lie—
And there, unheeded and forgot,
Alone—oh! God—alone to die.
Who talks of dying, while around
The earth’s so fair, the sky so bright?
With Folly’s wreath let day be crowned,
And Mirth and Music rule the night.