LXX.

There, in a moment, we may plunge our years[317] In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own Soul turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea The boldest steer but where their ports invite-- But there are wanderers o'er Eternity[je][318] Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be.