CLXVI.

And send us prying into the abyss, To gather what we shall be when the frame Shall be resolved to something less than this-- Its wretched essence; and to dream of fame, And wipe the dust from off the idle name We never more shall hear,--but never more, Oh, happier thought! can we be made the same:-- It is enough in sooth that _once_ we bore These fardels[531] of the heart--the heart whose sweat was gore.