The primrose path of joy pursue:
The torch, the lamps' sepulchral fire,
Their paleness on your charms impress,
And glaring on your loveliness,
Death mocks what living eyes desire.
Approach! the music of your tread
No longer bids the cold heart beat:
For ruling Beauty boasts no seat
Of empire o'er the senseless dead!
Yet, if their lessons profit aught,