Poems, on sacred and other subjects and songs, humorous and sentimental: By the late William Watt. Third edition of the songs only--with additional songs |
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“All is Vanity and Vexation of Spirit.”
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 | Poems, on sacred and other subjects |  |
“All is Vanity and Vexation of Spirit.”
Let not ambition spoil thy rest,
That demon of the human breast;
Though oft in seemly garbage dress'd,
Its end is only misery.
That demon of the human breast;
Though oft in seemly garbage dress'd,
Its end is only misery.
134
Whate'er the wish, whate'er the prize,
That dazzles thy bewitched eyes,
The ignis-fatuus from thee flies,
For all is nought but Vanity.
That dazzles thy bewitched eyes,
The ignis-fatuus from thee flies,
For all is nought but Vanity.
Think not that titles, wealth, and fame,
On earth can all the pleasure claim;
Oft poverty, without a name,
Enjoys more sweet serenity.
On earth can all the pleasure claim;
Oft poverty, without a name,
Enjoys more sweet serenity.
The king who sat on Judah's throne
Made every joy on earth his own;
Yet plain declares to every one,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”
Made every joy on earth his own;
Yet plain declares to every one,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”
What scorpion-torments rend the breast
Where wealth displays her dragon-crest!
Nor day nor night can bring them rest
Who hunt the phantom Vanity.
Where wealth displays her dragon-crest!
Nor day nor night can bring them rest
Who hunt the phantom Vanity.
The haughty fair who trips the street,
In all the show of dress complete,
Though gay she seems, doth often meet
Neglect—which cries, “All's Vanity.”
In all the show of dress complete,
Though gay she seems, doth often meet
Neglect—which cries, “All's Vanity.”
Oh were she but so wise as know
Small happiness is found below,
More joy she'd meet, and feel less woe.
Earth holds not true felicity.
Small happiness is found below,
More joy she'd meet, and feel less woe.
Earth holds not true felicity.
With ceaseless rage her bosom's burning;
At fate's sour look she's ever spurning;
Of cold mischance knows every turning;
But still finds all is Vanity.
At fate's sour look she's ever spurning;
Of cold mischance knows every turning;
But still finds all is Vanity.
Nor dwells this only with the fair:
Our dandies too its horrors share;
Who hunt for fortunes everywhere—
But find full oft “all's Vanity.”
Our dandies too its horrors share;
Who hunt for fortunes everywhere—
But find full oft “all's Vanity.”
The warrior—who through fields of blood
Drives, keen to pull fame's rosy bud—
But meets, when cross'd the troubled flood,
The airy phantom Vanity.
Drives, keen to pull fame's rosy bud—
But meets, when cross'd the troubled flood,
The airy phantom Vanity.
How drear the time when all is o'er!
And he, on life's remotest shore,
Sees thousands weltering in their gore
Through his unbounded Vanity!
And he, on life's remotest shore,
Sees thousands weltering in their gore
Through his unbounded Vanity!
135
Where'er he looks, where'er he flies,
The ghastly picture still he 'spies;
And, black and wild, before him lies
A dismal dark eternity!
The ghastly picture still he 'spies;
And, black and wild, before him lies
A dismal dark eternity!
Oh what would thousands such have given,
When, to despair's dark cavern driven,
Had they obey'd the voice of Heaven?
Which cries aloud, “All's Vanity.”
When, to despair's dark cavern driven,
Had they obey'd the voice of Heaven?
Which cries aloud, “All's Vanity.”
Nor holds this law to crimes alone
Which make creation loudly groan;
Each pleasure's crest has stamp'd thereon,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”
Which make creation loudly groan;
Each pleasure's crest has stamp'd thereon,
“All earthly joy is Vanity.”
How short our rapt'rous moments last?
Like clouds before the sweeping blast!
Like surging tides receding fast!
And all at last is Vanity.
Like clouds before the sweeping blast!
Like surging tides receding fast!
And all at last is Vanity.
The summer flower in beauty blows,
And, sun-ward, fair its bosom shows;
But, evening come, its leaves soon close;
So death ends all our Vanity.
And, sun-ward, fair its bosom shows;
But, evening come, its leaves soon close;
So death ends all our Vanity.
In that lone house the weary rest;
There sighs no more the soul oppress'd;
There finds the saint a haven bless'd,
Beyond the reach of Vanity.
There sighs no more the soul oppress'd;
There finds the saint a haven bless'd,
Beyond the reach of Vanity.
| Poems, on sacred and other subjects | |