Thy soul, invisible, is hovering round!
Thy splendid trophies, and thy honours fade,
Thy grandeur, like thyself, is now a shade:
Thus fare the hopes in which we most confide,
And thus the efforts end of human pride.
What yesterday could hold the world in chains,
To-day, transform’d to dust, an urn contains:
Such is the fate of all, from cot to throne;
Our origin is earth, our end a stone!
Ah! wretched life! how frail and short thy joys!