METHOUGHT I saw the footsteps of a throne Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud-- Nor view of who might sit thereon allowed; But all the steps and ground about were strown With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone Ever put on; a miserable crowd, Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud, "Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan." Those steps I clomb; the mists before me gave Smooth way; and I beheld the face of one 10 Sleeping alone within a mossy cave, With her face up to heaven; that seemed to have Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone; A lovely Beauty in a summer grave! 1806.
