To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?
Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
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?
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.