Visions of glory, spare my aching sight.

'Tis folly to be wise.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come, nor care beyond today.

We frolic while ’tis May.

Scatter plenty o’er a smiling land.

He pass’d the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

From Helicon’s harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.

And hie him home, at evening’s close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

Sorrow’s faded form, and solitude behind.

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’d, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.