II.

The loftiest fate will longest lie In unrevealing sleep; And yet unknown the destined race, Nor yet his Soul had walk'd with Grace; Still, on the seas of Time Drifted the ever-careless prime,-- But many a blast that o'er the sky All idly seems to sweep,-- Still while it speeds, may spread the seeds The toils of autumn reap:-- And we must blame the soil, and not the wind, If hurrying passion leave no golden grain behind.