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