The distant doves their plaintive moans prolong,
And sweet perfumes arise where’er I turn,
To woo a wand’rer from a world of wrong.
And why should one look further for a grave,
And seek vain pomps and plaudits ere he die?
Earth’s gold is venom, each great king a slave
To some vile passion, and enjoyments fly
We know not whither, but they ne’er return;
And memory brings but a tear or sigh
For moments lost, for bliss we once could spurn,