A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

Sense is our helmet, wit is but the plume; The plume exposes, 'tis our helmet saves. Sense is the diamond, weighty, solid, sound; When cut by wit, it casts a brighter beam; Yet, wit apart, it is a diamond still.

This is the bud of being, the dim dawn, The twilight of our day, the vestibule; Life's theatre as yet is shut, and death, Strong death, alone can heave the massy bar, This gross impediment of clay remove, And make us embryos of existence free.

There buds the promise of celestial worth.

The booby father craves a booby son, And by Heaven's blessing thinks himself undone.

The love of praise, howe'er conceal'd by art, Reigns more or less, and glows in ev'ry heart.

Tis immortality, 'tis that alone, Amid life's pains, abasements, emptiness, The soul can comfort, elevate, and fill. That only, and that amply this performs.