be wise, o my woe, seek thy grievance to drown,

thou didst call for the night, and behold it is here,

an atmosphere sombre, envelopes the town,

to some bringing peace and to others a care.

whilst the manifold souls of the vile multitude,

'neath the lash of enjoyment, that merciless sway,

go plucking remorse from the menial brood,

from them far, o my grief, hold my hand, come this way.

behold how they beckon, those years, long expired,

from heaven, in faded apparel attired,

how regret, smiling, foams on the waters like yeast;

its arches of slumber the dying sun spreads,

and like a long winding-sheet dragged to the east,

oh, hearken beloved, how the night softly treads!