- Forever seeking, never found, In this wide varied scene; Sole object of unceasing search, While in this low terrene. Yet vain the search, if in the heart Some lurking passion dwell; For this will hang with cypress wreath Retirement's secret cell. In vain the outward scene is calm, In vain the world we fly; If thou, in pure religion's garb, Thy friendly aid deny.
- Why , alas! is life decreed Full of pain and full of sorrow? All uncertain as it is, Can we rest upon to-morrow? Why should blessings yet in store, Hold us still in expectation? Leading thro' succeeding sorrows, By some fond anticipation: 'Tis to give a tender interest To the scenes in which we're moving: While those hopes so often blasted, Sensual pleasures are reproving.