So ye alas! are nothing now to me,

Alarmed, because my casting down ye see.

In prosp'rous days, of wealth, and power, and ease,
Pretended friends do much resemble these;
With loud professions, puffed, and swollen high,
They promise aid, and comfort to supply;
But, when afflictions, aid from them demand,
They disappear, like streams, within the sand.
Did I invite your gracious presence here?
To soothe my sorrows, and my heart to cheer?
Have I besought your famous wealth, and power,
To give me aid in this distressing hour?
Did I implore: A gift to me accord,
Or, of your substance, give me a reward?
Or, rescue me from any hostile band?
Redeem me quickly from the mighty's hand?
Oh! teach me now, and I will hold my tongue,
Cause me to know from whence my errors sprung.
How forcible are words of right to move!
But what alas! doth your debate reprove ?
Do ye, my words, imagine to berate ?
And speeches too of one that's desperate?
Which rush impatient from the phrensied mind,
Like boist❜rous gales, of high, tempest'ous wind?
Against the orphan ye would spring a snare,
And secret pits against your friend prepare.
Be hence content; your looks upon me place,
For if I lie, it is before your face.

Return, I pray, and hear my words with care,
Nor so erroneous my speech declare.
Return, again, to what I hence reply,
My righteousness doth clearly, in it, lie.
Doth this, my tongue, iniquity rehearse?
Cannot my taste discern the things perverse?
The life of man's a warfare on the earth,
In which he's listed from his very birth.
Like hirelings also toiling to and fro,
He spends his days in service here below.
As servants pant, and seek the evening shade,
And hirelings look for labor's wages paid;
So months of vanity do I possess,

And nights of anguish make me comfortless.
If on my bed I close my weary eyes,

I

say,

in sorrow: when shall I arise ?

And when shall gush the bright, heraldic dawn,
And night, and darkness once again be gone?
Replete with tossings to and fro I lie,

Until aurora dawneth in the sky.

My flesh, with worms, and clods of dust is clothed,

My broken skin is most profoundly loathed.

My days are brief, replete with tears, and sighs,

And swifter far than weaver's shuttle flies.

Oh! God, remember that my life is wind,
My breath is upward, unto thee, inclined;
Mine eye, no more, shall, on the earth, return,
Its charming prospects, or its good, to learn;

The eye of him that saw me, oft before,
Shall see me hence, in mortal form, no more.
Thine eyes, to me, their dreadful gazes give,
And therefore I, no longer here, can live.
The fleecy cloud, that intercepts the day,
Is soon consumed, and vanisheth away;
So he that goes to Sheol's gloomy shore,
From thence to earth, shall come again no more.
The noiseless grave shall be the downy bed,
In which the clay shall rest its weary head.
Although for home, and kindred he may yearn,
His house shall never welcome his return.
His homeward feet shall never reach his door,
His dwelling-place shall never know him more.
Therefore, my mouth will I not hence refrain,
But, in the anguish of my soul, complain.
In bitterness, within my spirit pent,
Will I cry out, and utter my lament.

The painful thoughts of going far away,

From earth, and home, within the grave to stay;

Distress, and agony, unuttered, brings,

In solemn wailings from the spirit's strings.
Am I a raging, and tumult'ous sea,
That thou confinest, and restrainest me?
Or dangerous monster of the hoary deep,
That thou, a watch, dost always o'er me keep?
And when I say: my bed shall bear my pain,
My couch shall ease me when I sore complain;

Thou scarest me, with dreams, beyond control,
And ghostly visions terrify my soul;

So that I choose the pain of strangling groans,
And death prefer to these my loathsome bones.
Oh! God, I loathe my sore, afflicted life,
So full of sorrow, toil, and angry strife;

I would not always, on the earth remain,
Afflict me not, for all my days are vain.
And what is man, composed of gilded clay,
That thou shouldst magnify him in this way' ?
That thou shouldst make him, in importance, great,
Above the works thy wisdom did create?

And cause thy heart, for him, intense to yearn,

Above the sun, or moon, or stars that burn?

To mark his ways with ever sleepless care,

And vex his soul, beyond his power to bear?
That ev'ry morning thou shouldst make him sigh,
And ev'ry moment, with afflictions, try?
How long O! God, wilt thou afflict my heart?
How long before thou wilt, from me, depart?
And cease, on me, with trials sore, to frown,
Until my spittle I shall swallow down?
If I have sinned, against thy just decree,
Then tell me what that sin hath done to thee.
O! thou beholder of all mortal things,
Declare to me, from what its vileness springs.
And why hast thou, in days of sorrow dark,
Set up myself against thee, as a mark?

That hence a burden to myself I live,

O'erwhelmed, with troubles, thou dost sorely give.

If I have sinned, against-thy holy law,

Then why thine anger wilt thou not withdraw?
And why not seal my pardon free this day?
And all my sins, in mercy, take away?
For now shall I, in dust and ashes deep,

In balmy slumber close my eyes to sleep;
And, in the morning, thou shalt seek me round,
But I shall, nowhere, on the earth be found.