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Lettered on facing page: "32 | And how they might have borne more welcome news: | Their answers form what men experience call; | If wisdom's friend, her best; if not, worst foe. | O reconcile them! kind experience cries, | 'There's nothing here, but what as nothing weighs; | 'The more our joy, the more we know it vain; | 'And by success are tutor'd to despair'. | Nor is it only thus, but must be so: | Who knows not this, though gray, is still a child: | Loose then from earth the grasp of fond desire, | Weigh anchor, and some happier clime explore. | Art thou so moor'd thou canst not disengage, | Nor give thy thoughts a ply to future scenes? | Since, by life's passing breath, blown up from earth, | Light, as the summer's dust, we take in air | A moment's giddy flight, and fall again; | Join the dull mass, increase the trodden soil, | And sleep 'till earth herself shall be no more; | Since then, as emmets, their small world o'erthrown, | We, sore amazed, from out earth's ruins crawl, | And rise to fate extreme of foul or fair, | As man's own choice, controller of the skies! | As man's despotic will, perhaps one hour | O how omnipotent is time! decrees; | Should not each warning give a strong alarm-- | Warning, far less than that of bosom torn | From bosom, bleeding o'er the sacred dead? | Should not each dial strike us as we pass, | Portentous, as the written wall which struck, | O'er midnight bowls, the proud Assyrian pale,"