S IRUCIURES , rais'd by morning dreams,
Sands, that trip the flitting streams,
Down, that anchors on the air,
Clouds, that paint their changes there

Seas, that smoothly dimpling lie,
While the storm impends from high,
Showing, in an obvious glass,
Joys, that in possession pass

Transient, fickle, light and gay,
Flatt'ring only to betray;
What, alas, can life contain!
Life, like all it circles — vain!

Will the stork, intending rest,
On the billow build her nest?
Will the bee demand her store
From the bleak and bladeless shore?

Man alone, intent to stray,
Ever turns from wisdom's way;
Lays up wealth in foreign land,
Sows the sea, and ploughs the sand.