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'Tis then an odour of divinest myrrh
Steals through the fane, and, as the breezes stir—
Soft and more soft—the far Pelusian lakes,
A breath of Ind the raptured sense awakes,
And, redolent of health, perfumes awhile,
More sweet than nectar, the dark mouths of Nile.
O happy bird! thine own surviving heir,
"Whose smouldering ashes still new life prepare;
To whom decay but firmer strength supplies,
For not thyself—'tis but thine age that dies:
Eternal witness of whate'er has been—
All changes of the world thine eye hath seen:
The time when ocean's waters, day by day
Upborne, in stillness on the mountains lay:
And that, when Phäeton, in wild career,
To conflagration doomed the wasted year.
Thee neither death, nor mundane ills invade,
Safe mid destruction, fresh when all things fade;
For thee the Parcæ weave their webs in vain—
Unharmed thou art, and shalt unharm'd remain.
