'Vain is my search, although my pains be great,
Where my God is there can be no deceit.'
"A scrutiny within myself I then
Even thus began:
'O man, what art thou?' What more could I say,
Than dust and clay?
Frail mortal, fading, a mere puff, a blast
That cannot last,—
Enthroned to-day, to-morrow in an urn,
Formed from that earth to which I must return.