I’VE LEFT THE GIDDY THRONG.

I’ve left the giddy throng:

The dance is o’er: mine ear

Hears but a phantom song,

And I am lonely here.

Oh, in the dark still night

When shadows round us be,

How vain all earth’s delight!

Whom have I, Lord, but thee?

It is a fearful thing

To be with self alone;

To bear a closeting,

With conscience on her throne:

For who but feels, when still

The heavy night hangs round,

The boding dews that chill

The sleepers under ground!

Oh, who but thinks how soon

Such sleep his own must be;

The cold damp sod aboon,

And earth-worms feasting free:

Oh, who but feels full oft

His body rotting there,

His robes of beauty doffed,

The winding-sheet, his wear!

And who but trembles then,

At what we dare to be,

When mixt with thoughtless men,

We too live thoughtlessly!

Poor pilgrims unto death,

Poor insects of a day,

How dare we spend our breath

As if we lived for aye.