Blown up with painful care, and hard to light, A glimmering torch, blown in a moment out; Suspended by a webb, an angler’s bait, Floating at stake along the stream of chance, Snatch’d from its hook by the fish of poverty. A silent cavern is his last abode; The king’s repository, veil’d with gloom, The umbrage of a thousand oziers; bowed, The couch of hallowed bones, the slave’s asylum, The brave’s retreat, and end of ev'ry care.