Epilogue.

So I sang; but the Muse, Shaking her head, took the harp-- Stern interrupted my strain, Angrily smote on the chords.

April showers Rush o’er the Yorkshire moors. Stormy, through driving mist, Loom the blurred hills; the rain Lashes the newly-made grave.

Unquiet souls! --In the dark fermentation of earth, In the never-idle workshop of nature, In the eternal movement, Ye shall find yourselves again!