Ah, how unjust to Nature and himself Is thoughtless, thankless, inconsistent man!
What is a miracle?--'Tis a reproach, 'Tis an implicit satire on mankind; And while it satisfies, it censures too.
Death! great proprietor of all! 'tis thine To tread out empire, and to quench the stars.
The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
How blessings brighten as they take their flight.
'T is greatly wise to talk with our past hours, And ask them what report they bore to heaven.