I.

Of chance or change O let not man complain, Else shall he never never cease to wail: For, from the imperial dome, to where the swain Rears the lone cottage in the silent dale, All feel th' assault of fortune's fickle gale; Art, empire, earth itself, to change are doom'd; Earthquakes have rais'd to heaven the humble vale: And gulfs the mountain's mighty mass entomb'd, And where th' Atlantic rolls wide continents have bloom'd.[1]