No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind?

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

Rich with the spoils of time.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.