A memorial volume of sacred poetry by the late Sir John Bowring. To which is prefixed, a memoir of the author, by Lady Bowring |
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Life fleeting and vain.
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 | A memorial volume of sacred poetry |  |
Life fleeting and vain.
On! on! our moments hurry by
Like shadows of a passing cloud,
Till general darkness wraps the sky,
And man sleeps senseless in his shroud.
Like shadows of a passing cloud,
Till general darkness wraps the sky,
And man sleeps senseless in his shroud.
He sports, he trifles time away,
Till time is his to waste no more:
Heedless he hears the surges play,
And then is dashed upon the shore.
Till time is his to waste no more:
Heedless he hears the surges play,
And then is dashed upon the shore.
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He has no thought of coming days,
Though they alone deserve his thought:
And so the heedless wanderer strays,
And treasures nought, and gathers nought.
Though they alone deserve his thought:
And so the heedless wanderer strays,
And treasures nought, and gathers nought.
Though Wisdom speak—his ear is dull;
Though Virtue smile—he sees her not;
His cup of vanity is full;
And all besides forgone—forgot.
Though Virtue smile—he sees her not;
His cup of vanity is full;
And all besides forgone—forgot.
| A memorial volume of sacred poetry | |