Poetical Works

BOOK I.

The clock struck twelve; o'er half the globe Darkness had spread her pitchy robe: Morpheus, his feet with velvet shod, Treading as if in fear he trod, Gentle as dews at even-tide, Distill'd his poppies far and wide. Ambition, who, when waking, dreams Of mighty, but fantastic schemes, Who, when asleep, ne'er knows that rest With which the humbler soul is blest,...