Sacred Poems By the Late Right Hon. Sir Robert Grant |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. | VII.
PSALM XLIX. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
 | Sacred Poems |  |
21
VII. PSALM XLIX.
1
With musings sad my spirit teems,My harp is strung to saddest themes;
O, mortal, hear its notes complain,
Nor shun a dark but faithful strain
Whose simple length, tho' short, shall span
The mournful history of man.
2
How oft, with dreams of pomp elate,The rich upbuilds his haughty state,
With eager fondness counts his gains,
And proudly names his wide domains;
While, left to poverty and scorn,
The just in humble silence mourn!
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3
Yet envy not the pomp, ye just,That towers upon a base of dust:
For O, when death decreed shall come
To shake the proud man's lofty dome,
Will proffer'd gold avail to save?
Or ransoms bribe the yawning grave?
4
Lo, stretch'd before his anguish'd eyes,A child, a wife, a brother lies;
How vain his stores, his cares how vain,
The fleeting spirit to retain!
The form he clasps resigns its breath,
And fills his blank embrace with death.
5
Again it strikes,—a second blow,—The man of pride himself is low:
Shall wealth, shall state, attend the dead?
'Tis only to his clay-cold bed.
Caress'd by crowds, by hundreds known,
He fills the narrow house alone.
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6
The funeral pomp, superb and slow,The gorgeous pageantry of woe,
The praise that fills th' historic roll,—
Can these assist the parted soul?
Or will remembered grandeur cheer
The shivering, lonely traveller?
7
And when that breathless, wasting clayAgain shall feel the life-blood play,
When on the cell, where dark it lies,
A morn of piercing light shall rise,
O whither then shall guilt retire,
Or how avoid the eyes of fire?
8
O man, with heaven's own honours bright,And fall'st thou thus, thou child of light?
And still shall heirs on heirs anew
The melancholy jest pursue?
And, born the offspring of the sky,
In folly live, in darkness die?
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9
But I on thee depend, O Lord,My hope, my help, and high reward;
Thy word illumes my feeble eyes;
Thy spirit all my strength supplies;
In sickness thou my aid shalt be,
And death but gives me all to thee!
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