My Thoughts, That Often Mount the Skies

My thoughts

that oft­en mount the skies

Go

search the world be­neath

Where na­ture all in ru­in lies

And owns her sov­er­eign

Death.

The ty­rant

how he tri­umphs here!

His tro­phies spread around!

And heaps of dust and bones ap­pear

Thro’ all the hol­low ground.

These skulls

what ghast­ly fig­ures now!

How loath­some to the eyes!

These are the heads we late­ly knew

So beau­te­ous and so wise.

But where the souls

those death­less things

That left this dy­ing clay?

My thoughts

now stretch out all your wings

And trace eter­ni­ty.

O that un­fa­thom­able sea!

Those deeps with­out a shore!

Where liv­ing wa­ters gent­ly play

Or fie­ry bil­lows roar.

Thus must we leave the banks of life

And try this doubt­ful sea;

Vain are our groans

and dy­ing strife

To gain a mo­ment’s stay.

There we shall swim in heav’n­ly bliss

Or sink in flam­ing waves

While pale our thought­less car­cass lies

Amongst the si­lent graves.

Some hear­ty friend shall drop his tear

On our dry bones

and say

These once were strong

as mine ap­pear

And mine must be as they.

Thus shall our mol­der­ing mem­bers teach

What now our sens­es learn:

For dust and ash­es loud­est preach

Man’s in­fi­nite concern.