Be wise, O my Woe, seek thy grievance to drown, Thou didst call for the night, and behold it is here, An atmosphere sombre, envelopes the town, To some bringing peace and to others a care. Whilst the manifold souls of the vile multitude, 'Neath the lash of enjoyment, that merciless sway, Go plucking remorse from the menial brood, From them far, O my grief, hold my hand, come this way. Behold how they beckon, those years, long expired, From Heaven, in faded apparel attired, How Regret, smiling, foams on the waters like yeast; Its arches of slumber the dying sun spreads, And like a long winding-sheet dragged to the East, Oh, hearken Beloved, how the Night softly treads!