This horror will grow mild, this darkness light.
Farewell happy fields, Where joy forever dwells: Hail, horrors, hail.
This horror will grow mild, this darkness light; Besides what hope the never-ending flight Of future days may bring, what chance, what change Worth waiting--since our present lot appears For happy though but ill, for ill not worst, If we procure not to ourselves more woe.
O Conscience, into what abyss of fears And horrors hast thou driven me, out of which I find no way, from deep to deeper plunged.
The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
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