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.

The soul of man was made to walk the skies.

Our birth is nothing but our death begun; As tapers waste, that instant they take fire.

Men may live fools, but fools they cannot die.

On every thorn, delightful wisdom grows, In every rill a sweet instruction flows.

Sweet instinct leaps; slow reason feebly climbs.

Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings but himselfThat hideous sight,-a naked human heart.