Originally Posted by
markers
Stare not on me, thou ghastly Power! Nor, grim with chained defiance, lour: No Babel-structure would I build Where, order exil’d from his native sway, Confusion may the REGENT-sceptre wield, While all would rule and none obey: Go, to the world of man relate The story of thy sad, eventful fate; And call presumptuous Hope to hear And bid him check his blind career; And tell the sore-prest sons of Care, Never, never to despair! Paint Charles’ speed on wings of fire, The object of his fond desire, Beyond his boldest hopes, at hand: Paint all the triumph of the Portland Band; Mark how they lift the joy-exulting voice, And how their num’rous creditors rejoice; But just as hopes to warm enjoyment rise, Cry CONVALESCENCE! and the vision flies.
(Sounds like excuses from ascension)