Man makes a death which Nature never made. And feels a thousand deaths in fearing one.
Leisure is pain; take off our chariot wheels; how heavily we drag the load of life!
Satire recoils whenever charged too high; round your own fame the fatal splinters fly.
There buds the promise of celestial worth.
Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
Fame is the shade of immortality, And in itself a shadow. Soon as caught, Contemn'd; it shrinks to nothing in the grasp.