W HEN Time, or soon or late, shall bring The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead, Oblivion! may thy languid wing Wave gently oer my dying bed! No band of friends or heirs be there, 5 To weep, or wish, the coming blow: No maiden, with dishevelld hair, To feel, or feign, decorous woe. But silent let me sink to earth, With no officious mourners near: 10 I would not mar one hour of mirth, Nor startle friendship with a fear. Yet Love, if Love in such an hour Could nobly check its useless sighs, Might then exert its latest power 15 In her who lives and him who dies. Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last Thy features still serene to see: Forgetful of its struggles past, Een Pain itself should smile on thee. 20 But vain the wishfor Beauty still Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath; And womans tears, produced at will, Deceive in life, unman in death. Then lonely be my latest hour, 25 Without regret, without a groan; For thousands Death hath ceased to lower, And pain been transient or unknown. Ay, but to die, and go, alas! Where all have gone, and all must go! 30 To be the nothing that I was Ere born to life and living woe! Count oer the joys thine hours have seen, Count oer thy days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, 35 Tis something better not to be.