1 In vain the wealthy mortals toil, And heap their shining dust in vain, Look down and scorn the humble poor, And boast their lofty hills of gain.
2 Their golden cordials cannot ease Their pained hearts or aching heads, Nor fright nor bribe approaching death From glittering roofs and downy beds.
3 The lingering, the unwilling soul The dismal summons must obey, And bid a long a sad farewell To the pale lump of lifeless clay.
4 Thence they are huddled to the grave, Where kings and slaves have equal thrones; Their bones without distinction lie Amongst the heap of meaner bones.
The rest referred to Psalm 49.