Yet measuring all the long continu'd Space,
Ev'ry successive Day's repeated Race,
Since Time first started from his pristin Goal,
'Till He had reach'd that Hour, wherein my Soul
Joyn'd to my Body swell'd the Womb; I was,
(At least I think so) Nothing: must I pass
Again to Nothing, when this vital Breath
Ceasing, consigns Me o'er to Rest, and Death?
Must the whole Man, amazing Thought! return
To the cold Marble, or contracted Urn?
And never shall those Particles agree,
That were in Life this Individual He?
But sever'd, must They join the general Mass,
Thro' other Forms, and Shapes ordain'd to pass;
Nor Thought nor Image kept of what He was?
Does the great Word that gave him Sense, ordain,
That Life shall never wake that Sense again?
And will no Pow'r his sinking Spirits save
From the dark Caves of Death, and Chambers of the Grave?