Or pleaure’s silken chain of visions dear,
Of knowledge boasting, while unknown himself
And loudly cavils at existence here.
To be, and yet to be, is but the small demand,
Seek then religion’s purifying glow,
It tranquilizes time, with stubborn hand,
Whilst hoary age hopes endless life to know.
Our utmost here fills but a requiem page,
Poor, frail memorial of the passing age.