THUS I, the object of the world's disdain, Her mirth's my grief, her sullen grief my mirth; Fond earth! proportion not my seeming love To my long stay; let not thy thoughts deceive thee; Thou art my prison, and my home's above; My life's a preparation but to leave thee. The world's a labyrinth, whose anfractuous ways Are all composed of rubs and crooked meanders; No resting here; he's hurried back, that stays Her Athought; and he that goes unguided, wanders: way is dark, her path untrod, uneven, So hard's the way from earth, so hard's the way to heaven. This gyring labyrinth is betrenched about, On either hand, with streams of sulphurous fire, Streams closely sliding, erring in and out, But seeming pleasant to the fond deceiver; Where shall I seek a guide? where shall I meet Some lucky hand to lead my trembling paces? What trusty lantern will direct my feet To 'scape the danger of these dangerous places? An unrequested star did gently slide Before the wise men to a greater light; Backsliding Israel found a double guide, A pillar and a cloud-by day, by night; Yet in my desperate dangers, which be far Oh! that the pinions of a clipping dove Would cut my passage through the empty air; Mine eyes being sealed, how would I mount above The reach of danger and forgotten care! My backward eyes should ne'er commit that fault, Great God! Thou art the flowing spring of light; I'll trust my God, and Him alone pursue; clue. THE LONG-SUFFERING OF GOD. EVEN as a nurse, whose child's imperfect pace THE LAST TRUMPET. SEE how the latter trumpet's dreadful blast And scrambles from his melting throne! Hark how the direful hand of vengeance tears The sweltering clouds, whilst heaven appears A circle filled with flame, and centered with his fears. THE BREVITY OF LIFE. BEHOLD, How short a span Was long enough of old, To measure out the life of man; In those well-tempered days, his time was then Surveyed, cast up, and found but threescore years and ten. Alas! And what is that! They come, and slide, and pass, The posts of time are swift, which, having run Our days To sleep, to antic plays And toys, until the first stage end: Twelve waning moons, twice five times told, we give Το unrecovered loss, we rather breathe than live. We spend A ten years' breath Before we apprehend What 'tis to live, or fear a death : Our childish dreams are filled with painted joys, Which please our sense awhile, and waking prove but toys. How vain, How wretched is Poor man, that doth remain A slave to such a state as this! His days are short at longest, few at most: They be The secret springs, That make our minutes flee On wheels more swift than eagles' wings: Our life's a clock, and every gasp of death Breathes forth a warning grief, till Time shall strike a death. How soon Our new-born light Attains to full-aged noon And this, how soon, to gray-haired night! We spring, we bud, we blossom, and we blast, Ere we can count our days, our days they flee so fast. They end When scarce begun; And ere we apprehend That we begin to live, our life is done : Man, count thy days, and if they fly too fast For thy dull thoughts to count, count every day thy last. AGE. So have I seen the illustrious prince of light Rising in glory from his crocean bed, Advancing more and more his conquering head; So have I seen a well-built castle stand Whose active power commands both sea and land, So have I seen the blazing taper shoot Her golden head into the feeble air; Whose shadow-gilding ray, spread round about, Makes the foul face of black-browed darkness fair; Till at the length her wasting glory fades, And leave the night to her inveterate shades. E'en so this little world of living clay, The pride of nature glorified by art; That glorious sun, that whilome shone so bright, Is now e'en ravished from our darkened eyes; Lies now a monument of her own disguise; Poor bedrid man! where is that glory now, Thy youth so vaunted? where that majesty, Which sat enthroned upon thy manly brow? Where, where that braving arm? that daring eye? Thy drooping glory's blurred, and prostrate lies, Whilst fear perplexes thy distracted brow; Thus man that's born of woman can remain But a short time! his days are full of sorrow His life's a penance, and his death's a pain! Springs like a flower to-day, and fades to-morrow! His breath's a bubble, and his day's a span: 'Tis glorious misery to be born a man! |