The blank, exhausting pleasure leaves,
Nought but the power of truth can fill,
When disappointed virtue grieves
O'er hopeless purpose, helpless will:
No light to guide its steps is given,
But in a ray direct from heaven.
Th'enjoyments of the senses pall,
The charms of wealth grow dull and dim;
'Tis vanity and folly all-
Man finds they were not made for him;
They were not made to satisfy
A spirit that would soar so high;-
So high, that neither space nor time
Can bound its view nor stop its flight;
So high, that in its course sublime
It seeks the fountain-head of light;
And cannot rest but near the seat
Of all that's glorious, wise, and great.