Point to the mist–poised shroud, then quietly
Closed her pale lips, and locked the secret up,
Safe in the charnel's treasure.
Oh! how weak
Is mortal man! how, trifling! how confined
His scope of vision! Puffed with confidence
His phrase grows big with immortality;
And he, poor insect of a summer's day,
Dreams of eternal honours to his name,
Of endless glory and perennial bays,