Midway from Nothing to the Deity!

At thirty, man suspects himself a fool; Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan.

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.

The course of Nature is the art of God

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

Think naught a trifle, though it small appear; Small stands the mountain, moments make the year, and trifles life.

Men should press forward, in fame's glorious chase; Nobles look backward, and so lose the race.