And when 'midst fallen London they survey The stone where Alexander's ashes lay, Shall own with humble pride the lesson just By Time's slow finger written in the dust.

So fades a summer cloud away; So sinks the gale when storms are o'er; So gently shuts the eye of day; So dies a wave along the shore.

Child of mortality, whence comest thou? Why is thy countenance sad, and why are thine eyes red with weeping?

It is to hope, though hope were lost.

Man is the nobler growth our realms supply And souls are ripened in our northern sky.

Is there not A tongue in every star that talks with man, And wooes him to be wise? nor wooes in vain; This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, And wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars.