O, what a thing is man! from rest

How widely distant, and from power!

Some twenty several men at least

He seems, he is, each several hour.

Heaven his sole treasure now he loves;

But let a tempting thought creep in,

His coward soul he soon reproves,

That starts to admit a pleasing sin.

Eager he rushes now to war,

Inglorious now dissolves in ease:

Wealth now engrosses all his care;

And lavish now he scorns increase.

A stately dome he raises now:

But soon the dome his change shall feel;

See, level lies its lofty brow,

Crush’d by the whirlwind of his will.

O, what were man, if his attire

Still varied with his varying mind;

If we his every new desire

Stamp’d on his altering form could find!

Could each one see his neighbour’s heart,

Brethren and social made in vain,

All would disband and range apart,

And man detest the monster man.

If God refuse our heart to turn,

Vain will His first creation be:

O, make us daily! or we spurn

Our own salvation, Lord, and Thee!