o’er sea and land? 
    What is renown?—­a gleam of transient light,
    That soon an envious cloud involves in night,
    While passing Time’s malignant hands diffuse
    On many a noble name pernicious dews. 
    Thus our terrestrial glories fade away,
    Our triumphs pass the pageants of a day;
    Our fields exchange their lords, our kingdoms fall,
    And thrones are wrapt in Hades’ funeral pall
    Yet virtue seldom gains what vice had lost,
    And oft the hopes of good desert are cross’d. 
    Not wealth alone, but mental stores decay,
    And, like the gifts of Mammon, pass away;
    Nor wisdom, wealth, nor fortune can withstand
    His desolating march by sea and land;
    Nor prayers, nor regal power his wheels restrain,
    Till he has ground us down to dust again. 
    Though various are the titles men can plead,
    Some for a time enjoy the glorious meed
    That merit claims; yet unrelenting fate
    On all the doom pronounces soon or late;
    And whatsoe’er the vulgar think or say,
    Were not your lives thus shorten’d to a day,
    Your eyes would see the consummating power
    His countless millions at a meal devour.” 
    And reason’s voice my stubborn mind subdued;
    Conviction soon the solemn words pursued;
    I saw all mortal glory pass away,
    Like vernal snows beneath the rising ray;
    And wealth, and power, and honour, strive in vain
    To ’scape the laws of Time’s despotic reign. 
    Though still to vulgar eyes they seem to claim
    A lot conspicuous in the lists of Fame,
    Transient as human joys; to feeble age
    They love to linger on this earthly stage,
    And think it cruel to be call’d away
    On the faint morn of life’s disastrous day. 
    Yet ah! how many infants on the breast
    By Heaven’s indulgence sink to endless rest! 
    And oft decrepid age his lot bewails,
    Whom every ill of lengthen’d life assails. 
    Hence sick despondence thinks the human lot
    A gift of fleeting breath too dearly bought: 
    But should the voice of Fame’s obstreperous blast
    From ages on to future ages last,
    E’en to the trump of doom,—­how poor the prize
    Whose worth depends upon the changing skies! 
    What time bestows and claims (the fleeting breath
    Of Fame) is but, at best, a second death—­
    A death that none of mortal race can shun,
    That wastes the brood of time, and triumphs o’er the sun.

    BOYD.

THE TRIUMPH OF ETERNITY.

Da poi che sotto ’l ciel cosa non vidi.

      When all beneath the ample cope of heaven
    I saw, like clouds before the tempest driven,
    In sad vicissitude’s eternal round,
    Awhile I stood in holy horror bound;
    And thus at last with self-exploring