Hermitage.

MEN change; that heaven above not more,
Which now with white clouds is all beautiful
Soon is with gray mists a poor creature dull,
Thus in this human theatre actions pour
Like slight waves on a melancholy shore;
Nothing is fixed,—the human heart is null,
‘Tis taught by scholars, is rehearsed in lore,—
Methinks this human heart might well be o’er;
O precious pomp of eterne vanity,
O false fool world, whose actions are a race
Of monstrous puppets;—I can’t frame one plan
Why any man should wear a smiling face,
World, thou art one green sepulchre to me,
Through which, mid clouds of dust, slowly I pace.