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When quakes shall root out foundings to the core,
When bold Abora shakes with cholic roar,
Then let the one in Caledonia weep
That man so rashly lays him down to sleep.
How small a loss it were to lose a race
Of feeble mind and self-deceiving face,
Who write their songs with fingers in the sand
And like Sir Spens, go walking on the strand.
Yet still a pity should we lose our hope,
Questing, ever questing, time always our foe...
Before the solemn eyes of aged Pope
Man holds the last spectacular at bay,
No more we weep; the moon is full again
Today; Eternity is then tomorrow.
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