Edward Young

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?

Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?

'Tis impious in a good man to be sad.

'Tis impious in a good man to be sad.

Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight,
On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . . .
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Britannia's shame! There took her gloomy flight,
On wing impetuous, a black sullen soul . . .
Less base the fear of death than fear of life.
O Britain! infamous for suicide.

What folly can be ranker. Like our shadows,
Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.

What folly can be ranker. Like our shadows,
Our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.