The good man's hope is laid far, far beyond The sway of tempests, or the furious sweep Of mortal desolation.--He beholds Unapprehensive, the gigantic stride Of rampant Ruin, or the unstable waves Of dark Vicissitude.--Even in death,-- In that dread hour, when, with a giant pang, Tearing the tender fibres of the heart, The immortal spirit struggles to be free, Then, even then, that hope forsakes him not, For it exists beyond the narrow verge Of the cold sepulchre. The petty joys Of fleeting life indignantly it spurn'd, And rested on the bosom of its God. This is man's only reasonable hope; And 't is a hope which, cherish'd in the breast, Shall not be disappointed. Even he, The Holy One--Almighty--who elanced The rolling world along its airy way, Even He will deign to smile upon the good, And welcome him to these celestial seats, Where joy and gladness hold their changeless reign. Thou, proud man, look upon yon starry vault, Survey the countless gems which richly stud The night's imperial chariot;--Telescopes Will show thee myriads more innumerous Than the sea sand;--each of those little lamps Is the great source of light, the central sun Round which some other mighty sisterhood Of planets travel, every planet stock'd With Hying beings impotent as thee. Now, proud man! now, where is thy greatness fled? What art thou in the scale of universe? Less, less than nothing!--Yet of thee the God Who built this wondrous frame of worlds is careful, As well as of the mendicant who begs The leavings of thy table. And shalt thou Lift up thy thankless spirit, and contemn His heavenly providence! Deluded fool, Even now the thunderbolt is wing'd with death, Even now thou totterest on the brink of hell.