Dust
The sun had not yet risen o'er the scene,
The wild lark sang his morning hymn on high,
And heaven breathed sweetly o'er the foliage green:
Julian and I walked forth, and soon we came
Unto the tomb of a high son of fame;
The marble told his deeds, his years, and name.
Struck with his greatness, and the sounding praise
That was bestowed upon him, I began
Almost to envy him the race he ran:
Man is a noble work, the wise man says,
And so said I; but Julian stooped, and took
Some dust up in his hand, and bade me look
Upon it well, and then he cried, 'See, this is man!'
April, 1827.