The poetical works of William Nicholson :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ah! woefu' wreck of wretched man!
Thou, sickening, show'st that life's a span,
With comforts frail and few;
Thy body, bent by many a year,
Thy feeble limbs reluctant bear;
Thy eye seems wet with blood-stained tear,
And cheek of clay-cold hue.

On lyart temples, thin and bare,
The zephyr scarce can find a hair,
To wave a warning round;
But tattered rags he finds enow,
To float and wave, and show to view,
Like autumn's leaves of every hue,
That, withered, strew the ground.

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But see! the thoughtless, proud, and gay,
Poor earthworms! fluttering now in May,
Fall back and back in rings.
Few heave for thee the pitying sigh;
The Bucks take snuff as thou creep'st by;
The ladies rein the neck and eye,
And gather in their wings.

Can feeble age you thus affright?
Can poverty thus wound your sight?
Thus man for man be stunned?
Then ponder well what now ye see;
For who can read the dark decree?
What he is now, ye soon may be,
And serpent-like thus shunned.

I hear thee heave the heavy moan:
Amidst the crowd thou sigh'st alone,
And tremblest at the word
Of Gospel peal, that loud is rung
From thundering preacher's pliant tongue,
Unto a giddy lukewarm throng,
“O Israel, fear the Lord!”

Art thou a sinner, old in crimes,
That in thy youthful, healthful times,
Oft strayed in folly's road—
Now show'st thy bold presumptuous head
When every youthful passion's dead,
When life's a load—enjoyment fled—
Thou seek'st the house of God?

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Or rather has thy wounded worth
Found nought but cross and care on earth?
For worth has much to bear.—
Has reckless death thy bosom riven?
Has misery and want thee driven,
Till wrenched of every stay but Heaven?
Yet hope—nor feed despair:

For He, whose grace thou fond would'st gain,
He acts not as the sons of men,
Nor breaks the bruised reed.
The broken heart to him is dear;
He soothes, He wipes the swelling tear;
He bends from Heaven thy griefs to hear,
A help and stay in need.

What though the unfeeling crowd aroun',
Within God's house on thee look down,
For want of rich array?
This borrowed light must soon decline,
When thou in robes of grace may'st shine;
Some future day, perhaps, is thine,
When theirs is wild dismay.