The soul of man was made to walk the skies.
Heaven wills our happiness, allows our doom.
The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.
Where Nature's end of language is declin'd, And men talk only to conceal the mind.
Man wants but little, nor that little long; How soon must he resign his very dust, Which frugal nature lent him for an hour!
Nothing in Nature, much less conscious being, Was e'er created solely for itself.