My thoughts, that oft­en mount the skies,
Go, search the world be­neath,
Where na­ture all in ru­in lies,
And owns her so­ver­eign, Death.

The ty­rant, how he tri­umphs here!
His tro­phies spread around!
And heaps of dust and bones ap­pear
Thro’ all the hol­low ground.

These skulls, what ghast­ly fig­ures now!
How loath­some to the eyes!
These are the heads we late­ly knew,
So beau­te­ous and so wise.

But where the souls, those death­less things
That left this dy­ing clay?
My thoughts, now stretch out all your wings,
And trace eter­ni­ty.

O that un­fa­thom­able sea!
Those deeps with­out a shore!
Where liv­ing wa­ters gent­ly play,
Or fie­ry bil­lows roar.

Thus must we leave the banks of life,
And try this doubt­ful sea;
Vain are our groans, and dy­ing strife
To gain a mo­ment’s stay.

There we shall swim in heav’n­ly bliss,
Or sink in flam­ing waves,
While pale our thought­less car­cass lies,
Amongst the si­lent graves.

Some hear­ty friend shall drop his tear
On our dry bones, and say,
These once were strong, as mine ap­pear,
And mine must be as they.

Thus shall our mol­der­ing mem­bers teach
What now our sens­es learn:
For dust and ash­es loud­est preach
Man’s in­fi­nite concern.