Had I but seen his glorious eye Once light the clouds that wilder me; I ne'er had raised this coward cry To cease to think, and cease to be; I ne'er had called oblivion blest, Nor stretching eager hands to death, Implored to change for senseless rest This sentient soul, this living breath - Oh, let me die-that power and will Their cruel strife may close; And conquered good and conquering ill Be lost in one repose.