A Thought at Waking

That morning too will dawn, when I shall rise Fresh from the dust, and soaring seek the skies; Then why should I lament that night draws on; And, tir'd, refuse to lay my burthen down? Tho' others more, yet I enough have seen, And guess what is to be, by what hath been. And since my youthful days, now almost past, Have pleas'd so little, welcome thou my last. 'Tis the least care, of all that fills this head, What men design when I have stole to bed. Closing my eyes, the world I now enclose, And Fancy, waking, murthers my repose; But in the grave, the house of rich and poor, Fast I shall sleep, and dream of life no more.