4.

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah! why

Should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.

Let us alone. What is it that will last?

All things are taken from us, and become

Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

To war with evil? Is there any peace

In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave

In silence, ripen, fall and cease:

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease!