Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

A few strong instincts and a few plain rules.

What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts, Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.