This vast and solid earth, that blazing sun, Those skies, thro' which it rolls, must all have end. What then is man? The smallest part of nothing.
We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields
Like our shadows, our wishes lengthen as our sun declines.
Accept a miracle, instead of wit See two dull lines, with Stanhope's pencil writ.
Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.
Praise, more divine than prayer; prayer points our ready path to heaven; praise is already there.