Ye busy World! what are your cobweb toils,
Your Sisyphéan labours? Infant piles,
To raise a bubble, which in air dissolves;
You toil an age to grasp the shining dust,
Death trips your heels, you throw it to the wind:
"Ah! let your irons on their anvils cool,"
And list a while to  moral strain;
She'll teach thy eye in mental maze to creep,
Timid and trembling, to explore the past;
Alarm'd by her, the monitor within
Shall aid thy search, and bring thyself to view.
Examine deep; that secret arbitrator
Shall give thee self-applause or deep remorse.
Heav'n guard thee from that Harpy, never fill'd,
Still, still insatiate as the bird of Jove,
That deeply gores the breast for meals eternal,
Nor knows a glut from ever-growing food.
Still struggle, restless; sink to depths profound,
Nor ever own a thought beneath immortal;
As such Jehovah views thee in the dust,
As such he'll waft thee to the plains of Heaven.
What's Death? Like infants sick of senseless toys,
We sink to rest — awake to love and joy;
To love and joy awakes the ravish'd soul,
Who liv'd to virtue, and who own'd a God.
But, ah! too daring theme — , assist!
My humble spirit waits your social hand,
Whose friendly beckon points to realms of bliss;
See,  soars, nor heeds my plaintive note,
Nor will the Muse assist my sluggard flight;
With rapture, see, she clasps her fav'rite maid,
And bids me fix where Science never dawn'd;
Hard, hard command! and yet I will obey;
Unaided, unassisted, will deplore
That learning, Heaven's best gift, is lost to me.
Cheerless and pensive o'er the wilds of life,
Like the poor beetle creep my hours away;
The journey clos'd, I shoot the gulf unknown,
To find a home, perhaps — a long lost mother.
How does fond thought hang on her much-lov'd name,
And tear each fibre of my bursting heart.
Ah! dear supporter of my infant mind,
Whose nobler precept bade my soul aspire
To more than tinsel joy; the filial tear
Shall drop for thee when pleasure loudest calls.
The dark sky lour'd, and the storms of life
Rose high with wildest roar; no voice was heard,
But Horror's dismal train affrights our souls.
For see, from the dark caverns of the deep,
Their griesly forms arise; the crown of Death
Shone horribly resplendent. See! they seize
A trembling, fainting, unresisting form,
Which hourly met their grasp: Ah! spare her yet.
See from the shore V— wafts his friendly hand;
He's born to bless, and we may yet be happy:
Quick let me clasp her to my panting heart,
And bear her swiftly o'er the beating wave.
In vain, in vain; some greater power unnerves
My feeble arm; inexorable Death,
Why wilt thou tear her from me? Oh! she dies,
Tho' V—'s dear name had lent a feeble glow
To her pale cheek, — she owns him, and expires.
Tremendous stroke! this is thy pastime, Fate:
If shrinking atoms thus thy vengeance feel,
What the grand stroke of final dissolution?