Call up the sleeping Hero; bid him tread
The Scene for our Amusement: How like Gods
We sit; and, wrapt in Immortality,
Shed gen'rous Tears and Wretches born to die;
Their Fate deploring, to forget our Own?
What, all the Pomps, and Triumphs of our Lives,
But Legacies in Blossom? Our lean Soil,
Luxuriant grown, and rank in Vanities,
From Friends interr'd beneath; a rich Manure!
Like others Worms, we banquet on the Dead;
Like other Worms, shall we crawl on, nor know
Our present Frailties, or approaching Fate?..."
(Young: Night Thoughts - NightIX)
