Of chance, or change, O let not man complain,

Else shall he never, never cease to wail;

For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain

Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale,

All feel the assault of fortune’s fickle gale;

Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doomed;

Earthquakes have raised to heaven the humble vale,

And gulfs the mountain’s mighty mass entombed,

And where the Atlantic rolls, wide continents have bloomed.

Beattie.