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Rh The terrors of truth and dart of death

To faith alike are vain;

Though comets, gone a thousand years,

Return again,

Patient she stands—she can no more—

And waits, nor heeds she waxes hoar.

(At a stony gate,

A statue of stone,

Weed overgrown—

Long 'twill wait!)

But God his former mind retains,

Confirms his old decree;

The generations are inured to pains,

And strong Necessity

Surges, and heaps Time's strand with wrecks.

The People spread like a weedy grass,

The thing they will they bring to pass,

And prosper to the apoplex.

The rout it herds around the heart,

The ghost is yielded in the gloom;

Kings wag their heads—Now save thyself

Who wouldst rebuild the world in bloom.