Some write their wrongs in marble: he more just, Stoopd down serene and wrote them in the dust, Trod under foot, the sport of every wind, Swept from the earth and blotted from his mind. There, secret in the grave, he bade them lie, And grieved they could not scape the Almighty eye.
Awake, my St. John! leave all meaner things To low ambition and the pride of kings. Let us (since life can little more supply Than just to look about us, and to die) Expatiate free oer all this scene of man; A mighty maze! but not without a plan.2