Page:The poetical works of Thomas Campbell.djvu/129

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"Types not this," I said, "fair spirit!That my death-hour is not come?Say, what days shall I inherit?—Tell my soul their sum.""No," he said, "yon phantom's aspect,Trust me, would appal thee worse,Held in clearly measured prospect:—Ask not for a curse!Make not, for I overhearThine unspoken thoughts as clearAs thy mortal ear could catchThe close-brought tickings of a watch—Make not the untold requestThat's now revolving in thy breast.
'Tis to live again, remeasuringYouth's years, like a scene rehearsed,In thy second life-time treasuringKnowledge from the first.Hast thou felt, poor self-deceiver!Life's career so void of pain,As to wish its fitful feverNew begun again?Could experience, ten times thine,Pain from Being disentwine—Threads by Fate together spun?Could thy flight Heaven's lightning shun?No, nor could thy foresight's glance'Scape the myriad shafts of Chance.
Wouldst thou bear again Love's trouble—Friendship's death-dissevered ties;Toil to grasp or miss the bubbleOf Ambition's prize?
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