Who built thus high for worms (mere worms to Him),
Oh, where, Lorenzo! must the Builder dwell?
Pause, then; and, for a moment, here respire—
If human thought can keep its station here.
Where am I?—Where is earth?—Nay, where art thou,
O sun?—Is the sun turn’d recluse?—and are
His boasted expeditions short to mine?—
To mine, how short! On nature’s Alps I stand,
And see a thousand firmaments beneath!
A thousand systems! as a thousand grains! 1750