It importunes death.

The sweet of life, from which God hath bid dwell far off all anxious cares.

Inſtinct he follows and no farther knows, For to write Verſe with him is to Tranſprose.

All the busy concerns of daily existence were utterly abhorrent to me. I loathed the sound of others' voices—I hated to be mixed up with their petty routine of ordinary cares; here was an asylum offered to me—here I might lay down all the offices of humanity, and dwell beside that grave whose rest was now my only desire.