To dread the future; and its staff
Writes its own weary epitaph.
What dream they of? Earth, with its feelings cold,
Its passions withered, tales that have been told,
And generations dead—the same dull tone
That from the chambers of the past hath gone,
Is echoed now; but, as before, its strain,
For warning, or for teaching, is in vain!
And hearts on which has come the early blight,
And hopes that never knew aught here but slight,