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I looked on the valley beneath; vast mists were rising from the

rivers which ran through it and curling in thick wreaths around

the opposite mountains, whose summits were hid in the uniform

clouds, while rain poured from the dark sky and added to the

melancholy impression I received from the objects around me.

Alas! Why does man boast of sensibilities superior to those

apparent in the brute; it only renders them more necessary

beings. If our impulses were confined to hunger, thirst, and

desire, we might be nearly free; but now we are moved by every

wind that blows and a chance word or scene that that word may

convey to us.

We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one

wand'ring thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason;

laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is

the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure

still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;

Nought may endure but mutability!