Then to the Lip of this poor earthen Urn

I lean’d, the Secret of my Life to learn:

“Drink! — for, once dead, you never shall return.”

I think the Vessel, that with fugitive

Articulation answer’d, once did live,

How many Kisses might it take — and give!

For I remember stopping by the way

To watch a Potter thumping his wet Clay:

It murmur’d — “Gently, Brother, gently, pray!”*

And has not such a Story from of Old

Down Man’s successive generations roll’d

Cast by the Maker into Human mould?