Miscellanies in Prose and Verse By Mrs. Catherine Jemmat |
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REFLECTIONS on the Uncertainty of all Sublunary Enjoyments.
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 | Miscellanies in Prose and Verse |  |
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REFLECTIONS on the Uncertainty of all Sublunary Enjoyments.
How vain is man, how flutt'ring are his joys,
When what one moment gives, the next destroys!
Hope and despair fill up his round of life,
And all his days are one continual strife;
Still struggling to be rich, yet always poor,
Urg'd by ambition still to covet more;
Reason (which ought to be his only guide)
He idly barters for an anxious pride;
And all his hopes are but uncertainty,
The parent of despair and misery.
When what one moment gives, the next destroys!
Hope and despair fill up his round of life,
And all his days are one continual strife;
Still struggling to be rich, yet always poor,
Urg'd by ambition still to covet more;
Reason (which ought to be his only guide)
He idly barters for an anxious pride;
And all his hopes are but uncertainty,
The parent of despair and misery.
Thus foolishly roll on the days of man,
(A tedious journey, tho' a little span)
The court, the park, the play, are pompous wiles,
To make him fancy that his fortune smiles;
When like a jilt she turns his joy to grief,
By disappointment of his fond belief;
And cool reflection teaches him to see,
The giddiness of all his vanity.
His self-conciet, his fancy'd power and skill,
Which bid defiance to th' Almighty's will,
Destroy'd by secret springs, he knows not how,
Should learn him to th' Almighty's will to bow:
For to his providence alone we owe,
All we possess of good, and all we know;
'Tis he who raises us, and brings us low.
Cease then, proud man, of thy own strength to boast,
Who of thyself canst little do at most;
Thou art the Maker's image, struck in clay,
Who with one blast can blow that form away,
Which moulders to its parent earth each day.
(A tedious journey, tho' a little span)
The court, the park, the play, are pompous wiles,
To make him fancy that his fortune smiles;
When like a jilt she turns his joy to grief,
By disappointment of his fond belief;
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The giddiness of all his vanity.
His self-conciet, his fancy'd power and skill,
Which bid defiance to th' Almighty's will,
Destroy'd by secret springs, he knows not how,
Should learn him to th' Almighty's will to bow:
For to his providence alone we owe,
All we possess of good, and all we know;
'Tis he who raises us, and brings us low.
Cease then, proud man, of thy own strength to boast,
Who of thyself canst little do at most;
Thou art the Maker's image, struck in clay,
Who with one blast can blow that form away,
Which moulders to its parent earth each day.
Then let not thy unruly fancy rove,
On any thing but what is fix'd above;
Be kind, be humble, merciful, and just,
In Providence alone put all thy trust:
For what thou hast, to him give all the praise,
Or never hope to meet with happy days.
On any thing but what is fix'd above;
Be kind, be humble, merciful, and just,
In Providence alone put all thy trust:
For what thou hast, to him give all the praise,
Or never hope to meet with happy days.
| Miscellanies in Prose and Verse | |