John Dyer

There is a kindly mood of melancholy, That wings the soul, and points her to the skies.

The solitary, silent, solemn scene, Where Caesars, heroes, peasants, hermits lie, Blended in dust together; where the slave Rests from his labours; where the insulting proud Resigns his power; the miser drops his hoard; Where human folly …

Disparting towers, Tumbling all precipitate down-dashed, Rattling around, loud thundering to the moon.

So little distant dangers seem: So we mistake the future's face, Ey'd thro' hope's deluding glass: As yon summits soft and fair, Clad in colours of the air, Which to those who journey near,

While the wanton Zephyr sings, And in the vale perfumes his wings.

Ever charming, ever new, When will the landskip tire the view?

See the rivers how they run Thro' woods and meads, in shade and sun, Sometimes swift, sometimes slow, Wave succeeding wave, they go A various journey to the deep, Like human life to endless sleep!

A little rule, a little sway, A sun beam in a winter’s day, Is all the proud and mighty have Between the cradle and the grave.