The loss accrues not to thy sainted wife; Where worldly troubles are absorb'd in peace. And thinkest Thou, the wand'rer who has sail'd From bleak and barren shores to better climes, To fare in plenty, could be now prevail'd To fix again 'mid scenes of earlier times? The same the feelings of the human soul, Ev'n She, whom thus we venerate and mourn, While the warm tear is trickling down thy cheek, If Heav'n allow'd her, would not now return, Among a world like this her home to seek. Nor would She now forsake that Heav'nly band, And if a crown were proffer'd to her hand, Triumph of Old Age. AN ELEGIAC POEM. CANTO VII. The Fragility of the Human Frame. How vain is reason, when involv'd in doubt, It scarcely dares to fluctuate with hopes! When all around it, is past finding out, And the clouds thicken more, as error gropes! Oh, there is light in reason! but it takes A view on which our being dreads to dwell, And see its vileness, when the glimm'ring makes The darkness of the picture visible. We are yet breathing, and the curious thought "Tis but a reptile that is born to creep, And draw his sust'nance from the scanty ground; 'Tis but a mould'ring corpse, from which a heap Of ashes only may next year be found. "Tis a light insect, that, on gilded wing, Yet man forgets, or thinks not, while his pride Ah! what is glory? Death in ambush lurks |