O Visions Ill Foreseen! Better

Cyriack, Whose Grandsire On The Royal Bench Of British Themis, With No Mean Applause Pronounced And In His Volumes Taught Our Laws, Which Others At Their Bar So Often Wrench

Where Eldest Night And Chaos, Ancestors Of Nature, Hold Eternal Anarchy Amidst The Noise Of Endless Wars, And By Confusion Stand; For Hot, Cold, Moist, And Dry, Four Champions Fierce, Strive Here For Mast'ry.

How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief Of Youth, Stolen On His Wing My Three-and-twentieth Year!

The Pilot Of The Galilean Lake; Two Massy Keys He Bore, Of Metals Twain (the Golden Opes, The Iron Shuts Amain).

Bid Amaranthus All His Beauty Shed, And Daffodillies Fill Their Cups With Tears, To Strew The Laureate To Hearse When Lycid Lies.