venerate themselves, the world despise.
For what, gay friend, is this escutcheon'd world,
Which hangs out DEATH in one eternal night?
A night that glooms us in the noon-tide ray,
And wraps our thought, at banquets, in the shroud.
Life's little stage is a small eminence,
Inch-high the grave above; that home of man,
Where dwells the multitude: we gaze around;
We read their monuments; we sigh; and while
We sigh, we sink, and are what we deplored:
Lamenting, or lamented, all our lot!