EPILOGUR.

3G9

But why should you mourn over bubbles,That are puff'd in and out with a breath,

When the greatest of bubbles and troublesAre, one and all, puff'd out by Death !—

The bubbles and troubles of Life !

Vain, inconsistent, self-deluded race,

Whose vision's limited to finite space,

You grasp some idle phantom of the brain,

And, maniac-like, would clank and hug your chain.

All—all is vanity beneath the sun !

Whene'er the sand of Life its course hath run —

Or soon, or late—'tis then the proper time

This grovelling world to quit, and seek the clime

Where Life's eternal, glorious, and sublime!