 | The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth |  |
285
THE PAST.
How fleet is time!—the little recent year
Seems like a moment that was scarcely here
Before 't was wasted! Time still onward flies,
Swift as a swallow seems to cleave the skies;
Laughing at those who, indolently blind,
Seized not his forelock—he is bald behind!
Seems like a moment that was scarcely here
Before 't was wasted! Time still onward flies,
Swift as a swallow seems to cleave the skies;
Laughing at those who, indolently blind,
Seized not his forelock—he is bald behind!
The past! what is it but a faded dream
Of promised joys? A bubble on the stream
Which flows unceasing to a shoreless sea,
The boundless ocean of eternity!
Of promised joys? A bubble on the stream
Which flows unceasing to a shoreless sea,
The boundless ocean of eternity!
The past! where is it? In the Eternal mind
It still exists, to all the future joined,
In one vast panorama! Mortal eye
Sees but the present, as it passes by!
It still exists, to all the future joined,
In one vast panorama! Mortal eye
Sees but the present, as it passes by!
The past! why is it that it leaves behind
So sad a legacy to all mankind?
Memory looks back with vain regrets and tears
While lingering o'er the urn of wasted years.
So sad a legacy to all mankind?
Memory looks back with vain regrets and tears
While lingering o'er the urn of wasted years.
The past! how is it that we don't improve
From these instructive pictures as they move?
Precept!—experience!—how can man demur?
“Be wise to-day—'t is madness to defer!”
From these instructive pictures as they move?
Precept!—experience!—how can man demur?
“Be wise to-day—'t is madness to defer!”
286
Thus mourn the humble, with the grave in view—
Thus teach the wise—and what they teach is true.
But hope, sweet hope, illusive hope, still smiles,
Points to the future—flatters and beguiles;
All trust her treacherous promises too far,
The bubble bursts!—and we are—what we are!
Thus teach the wise—and what they teach is true.
But hope, sweet hope, illusive hope, still smiles,
Points to the future—flatters and beguiles;
All trust her treacherous promises too far,
The bubble bursts!—and we are—what we are!
| The poetical works of Samuel Woodworth | |