Edward Young

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown,
Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?

Is there a tongue like Delia's o'er her cup,
That runs for ages without winding up?

Fond man! the vision of a moment made!
Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!

Fond man! the vision of a moment made!
Dream of a dream! and shadow of a shade!

One to destroy is murder by the law,
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
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One to destroy is murder by the law,
And gibbets keep the lifted hand in awe;
To murder thousands takes a specious name,
War's glorious art, and gives immortal fame.

And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?

And can eternity belong to me,
Poor pensioner on the bounties of an hour?