Death treads his silent way;
The earth turns round, and then, too late,
Man finds no beam is left of all his fancied state.
Rise from your sleep, vain men!
Look round, and ask if spirits born of Heaven,
And bound to Heaven again,
Were only lent or given
To be in this mean round of shades and follies driven.
Turn your unclouded eye
Up to yon bright, to yon eternal spheres;