And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close,

Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might Have Sway'd, Or Waked To Ecstasy The Living Lyre.

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

Now As The Paradisiacal Pleasures Of The Mahometans Consist In Playing Upon The Flute And Lying With Houris, Be Mine To Read Eternal New Romances Of Marivaux And Crebillon.