 | Poems on several subjects |  |
The Brevity of Human Life.
What's human life? alas! what need I ask?
To tell, none can adventure such a task.
Some say, a vapour; some, an empty dream;
Some say, 'tis like a bubble in a stream;
Some less than nothing, or mere vanity,
Or like a cloud before the winds that fly.
To tell, none can adventure such a task.
Some say, a vapour; some, an empty dream;
Some say, 'tis like a bubble in a stream;
Some less than nothing, or mere vanity,
Or like a cloud before the winds that fly.
We cannot call it life; for life's a name
That none of all the human race can claim:
For here we stay, but as it were to bait,
And soon remove into another state.
We can't remember how we came to be,
Nor accidents prevent, or them foresee.
Death dogs behind us; yea, and ev'ry hour,
He doth some part of our frail life devour.
What we call life is nothing but deceit,
A counterfeit, a nothing, and a cheat:
For we are apt to think to-morrow will
Repay what we to-day have reck'ned ill:
To-morrow comes, perhaps, and yet we find
Its promises more empty are than wind.
Ev'n like the brooks that after sudden rain
Run rapidly, and travellers detain;
These travellers again that way return,
And find its banks and channels deep are worn:
Panting with thirst, yet can have no supply;
By summer's drought these brooks are parched dry:
By these of old, Sheba's and Tema's troops,
Were disappointed of their foolish hopes.
Objects of sense, yea whether pain or pleasure,
Steal off the time by which our life we measure:
Then all that's past is like a tale that's told,
All is but glass, instead of upright gold.
That none of all the human race can claim:
For here we stay, but as it were to bait,
And soon remove into another state.
We can't remember how we came to be,
Nor accidents prevent, or them foresee.
Death dogs behind us; yea, and ev'ry hour,
He doth some part of our frail life devour.
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A counterfeit, a nothing, and a cheat:
For we are apt to think to-morrow will
Repay what we to-day have reck'ned ill:
To-morrow comes, perhaps, and yet we find
Its promises more empty are than wind.
Ev'n like the brooks that after sudden rain
Run rapidly, and travellers detain;
These travellers again that way return,
And find its banks and channels deep are worn:
Panting with thirst, yet can have no supply;
By summer's drought these brooks are parched dry:
By these of old, Sheba's and Tema's troops,
Were disappointed of their foolish hopes.
Objects of sense, yea whether pain or pleasure,
Steal off the time by which our life we measure:
Then all that's past is like a tale that's told,
All is but glass, instead of upright gold.
We seek for joy and satisfaction where
Nothing is found but sorrow, toil and care.
All the four ages of our longest life
Are folly, sin, hard labour, pain and grief.
Tost to and fro the little time we live,
All we enjoy no solid joy can give.
From one extreme we rush upon another,
And all our hopes in disappointment smother.
As sparks of fire fly upward, nat'rally,
Our life to troubles hath a tendency.
No part or scene of human life is bless'd;
For with afflictions God still tries the best,
And punishes the vicious, and his wrath
Pursues them still both at and after death.
So that if we the sweets of life would taste,
Sweets most substantial, that for ever last,
We must to God's good will always submit,
Who will dispose of us as he thinks fit.
Nothing is found but sorrow, toil and care.
All the four ages of our longest life
Are folly, sin, hard labour, pain and grief.
Tost to and fro the little time we live,
All we enjoy no solid joy can give.
From one extreme we rush upon another,
And all our hopes in disappointment smother.
As sparks of fire fly upward, nat'rally,
Our life to troubles hath a tendency.
No part or scene of human life is bless'd;
For with afflictions God still tries the best,
And punishes the vicious, and his wrath
Pursues them still both at and after death.
So that if we the sweets of life would taste,
Sweets most substantial, that for ever last,
We must to God's good will always submit,
Who will dispose of us as he thinks fit.
Our transitory life, uncertain, and so short,
Must be well spent, if we would have comfort;
Each day we live still learning how to die,
And where to fix for our eternity.
Tho' to long time our lives cannot extend,
Yet our existence is not at an end:
Here we must win eternal well or woe,
Ere death at last shall strike the fatal blow.
Must be well spent, if we would have comfort;
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And where to fix for our eternity.
Tho' to long time our lives cannot extend,
Yet our existence is not at an end:
Here we must win eternal well or woe,
Ere death at last shall strike the fatal blow.
| Poems on several subjects | |