Nor  raise  my  voice — for  who  would  heed  my  wail  ?
I  am  not  of  this  people,  nor  this  age,
And  yet  my  harpings  will  unfold  a  tale

Which  shall  preserve  these  times  when  not  a  page
Of  their  perturbed  annals  could  attract
An  eye  to  gaze  upon  their  civil  rage.
Did  not  my  verse  embalm  full  many  an  act
Worthless  as  they  who  wrought  it :  'tis  the  doom
Of  spirits  of  my  order  to  be  rack'd

in  life,  to  wear  their  hearts  out,  and  consume
Their  days  in  endless  strife,  and  die  alone ;
Then  fhture  thousands  crowd  around  their  tomb.
And  pilgrims  come  ftrom  climes  where  they  have
known
The  name  of  him— who  now  is  but  a  name.
