Who knows not this, though grey, 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? 390
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, 394
And sleep, till earth herself shall be no more;