Creation sleeps! 'Tis as the general pulse

Great let me call him, for he conquered me.

Souls made of fire, and children of the sun, With whom revenge is virtue.

In records that defy the tooth of time.

Ah! what is human life? How, like the dial's tardy-moving shade, Day after day slides from us unperceiv'd! The cunning fugitive is swift by stealth; Too subtle is the movement to be seen; Yet soon the hour is up—and we are gone.

Life is the desert, life the solitude; Death joins us to the great majority.

The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.