LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew;
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood:
Even such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies;
The spring entombed in autumn lies
The dew dries up, the star is shot;
The flight is past,-and man forgot.
As withereth the primrose by the river,
As fadeth summer's sun from gliding fountains,
As vanisheth the light-blown bubble ever,
As melteth snow upon the mossy mountains;
So melts, so vanishes, so fades, so withers
The rose, the shine, the bubble, and the snow,
Of praise, pomp, glory, joy (which short life gathers),
Fair praise, vain pomp, sweet glory, brittle joy!
The withered primrose by the morning river,
The faded summer's sun, from weeping fountains,
The light blown, vanished for ever,
The molten snow upon the naked mountains,
Are emblems that the treasures we uplay,
Soon wither, vanish, fade and melt away.
WAGES of sin is death: the day is come,
Wherein the equal hand of death must sum
The several items of man's fading glory
Into the easy total of one story.
The brows that sweat for kingdoms and renown,
To glorify their temples with a crown;
At length grow cold, and leave their honoured name
To flourish in the uncertain blast of fame.
This is the height that glorious mortals can
Attain; this is the highest pitch of man.
The mighty conqueror of the earth's great ball,
Whose unconfined limits were too small
For his extreme ambition to deserve,―
Six feet of length and three of breadth must serve,
This is the highest pitch that man can fly;
While, after all his triumph, he must die.
Lives he in wealth? Doth well-deserved store
Limit his wish, that he can wish no more?
And does the fairest bounty of increase
Crown him with plenty, and his days with peace?
It is a right-hand blessing: but supply
Of wealth cannot secure him ;—he must die.
Lives he in pleasure? Does perpetual mirth
Lend him a little heaven upon this earth?
Meets he no sudden care, no sudden loss
To cool his joys? Breathes he without a cross?
Wants he no pleasure that his wanton eye
Can crave or hope from fortune?—He must die.
Lives he in honour? hath his fair desert
Obtained the freedom of his prince's heart?
Or may his more familiar hands disburse
His liberal favours from the royal purse?
Alas! his honour cannot soar too high
For pale-faced Death to follow ;-he must die.
Lives he a conqueror? and doth heaven bless
His heart with spirit, that spirit with success;
Success with glory; glory with a name
To live with the eternity of fame?
The progress of his lasting fame may vie
With time but yet the conqueror must die.
Great and good God! thou Lord of life and death,
In whom the creature hath its being, breath;
Teach me to under-prize this life, and I
Shall find my loss the easier when I die.
So raise my feeble thoughts and dull desire,
That, when these vain and weary days expire,
may discard my flesh with joy, and quit
My better part of this false earth, and it
Of some more sin; and for this transitory
And tedious life enjoy a life of glory.
WHAT is this passing scene?
A peevish April-day!
A little sun, a little rain,—
And then night sweeps along the plain,
And all things fade away :
Man (soon discussed)
Yields up his trust;
And all his hopes and fears lie with him in the dust!
And what is beauty's power?
It flourishes and dies.
Will the cold earth its silence break,
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?
Mute, mute is all
O'er beauty's fall;
Her praise resounds no more when mantled in
The most beloved on earth
Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,
And yet 'twas sweet, 'twas passing sweet,
But now 'tis gone away:
Thus does the shade
In memory fade,
When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid!
Then since this world is vain
And volatile and fleet,
Why should I lay up earthly joys,
Where rust corrupts and moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows eat?
Why fly from ill
With anxious skill,
When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart
CHILD of the dust! if e'er thine eye
Hast watch'd the torrent flow,
Where, distant from its source on high,
It sweeps the vale below,
Then hast thou seen a silent force
Pervade its current strong;
No sound, no ripple, marks its course,
And yet it speeds along.
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