Contemplate all this work of Time,
⁠The giant labouring in his youth;
⁠Nor dream of human love and truth,
As dying Nature's earth and lime;

But trust that those we call the dead,
⁠Are breathers of an ampler day
⁠For ever nobler ends. They say,
The solid earth whereon we tread

In tracts of fluent heat began,
⁠And grew to seeming-random forms,
⁠The seeming prey of cyclic storms,
Till at the last arose the man;

Who throve and branch'd from clime to clime,
⁠The herald of a higher race,
⁠And of himself in higher place,
If so he type this work of time