When thine, O Nature! ends; too blest to mourn
Creation’s obsequies. What treasure, this! 540
The monarch is a beggar to the man.
Immortal! Ages past, yet nothing gone!
Morn without eve! a race without a goal!
Unshorten’d by progression infinite!
Futurity for ever future! Life
Beginning still where computation ends!
’Tis the description of a deity!
’Tis the description of the meanest slave: