LIFE'S STRUGGLE.
Our life is but a struggle here,
'Mid good and ill, 'twixt hope and fear,
Thro' dang'rous channels oft we steer,
With reckless force;
But self-made ills make life's career
A rougher course.
The world is but a human hive;
To keep the varied swarm alive,
Its working bees must toil and strive,
While others feast.
The lazy drones appear to thrive,
Yet work the least.
The world appears a battle-field,
The stronger rule, the weaker yield,
The golden nerves too often wield
The power which leads,
While justice' scales are oft conceal'd
By selfish deeds.
Yet still we strive midst hopes and fears,
With pleasure's smiles and sorrow's tears,
And tho' our bustling life appears
A transient breath,
It seems possess'd of endless years
'Twixt us and death.
The poor man toils for daily bread;
By him the rich are clothed and fed,
Yet life's to them a greater dread,
Or idle pest,
Their downy couch too oft a bed
Of sleepless rest.
How many a life's an idle waste,
Its destined glory seems disgraced,
Its vile possessor has defaced
The man divine,
That not a single mark is traced
Of God's design.
Man's but a child, a restless boy,
His life a game, the world his toy,
He strives for something to enjoy
Unjoy'd before,
Tho' vicious tastes and passions cloy
He longs for more.
The lust for gold, the love of fame,
The baser passions oft inflame,
And blindly masks the honest name
Of moral worth,
When life exceeds no higher aim
Than this vile earth.
Our souls the golden god inspires,
And feeds the life-destroying fires,
Until the fevered heart desires
With selfish greed,
More than it actually requires
For nature's need.
Life's hardest ills its spirit braves,
O'er mountain-crags and ocean-waves,
Then make ourselves the worst of slaves,
A slave to self,
To satisfy the thirst that craves
For yellow pelf.
The golden wand with magic art
Throws out the power to charm the heart,
But ah, we feel its bitter smart
When selfish greed
Has robb'd from life that better part
We so much need.
Alas, when gold absorbs our cares
Life's wheels get dry, the axle wears,
And heavier grows the load it bears,
And faster driven,
Its very dust defiles the prayers
We send to heaven.
Life's chariot wheels revolve with speed,
Yet faster still we urge our steed,
And scarcely slack the reins to feed
Or ease its breath,
The journey seems but short indeed,
When closed in death.
We haste it on with worldly care,
Oppressive toil, and meagre fare,
While sin and self-indulgence wear
Our chariot wheels
Increasing still the load they bear,
With countless ills.
How discontented life appears,
By every wind its compass veers,
Our hopes are tarnish'd by the fears
Of fancied ill,
Even tho' the sun of Fortune cheers,
We grumble still.
But why complain for everything
That gives our life a random sting;
Altho' we shift our tether-string
To please our will,
We'll always find the change will bring
Both good and ill.
Then why should we contract our sight
When life turns down the side that's bright
The blast that blows us ills to-night,
With cankering sorrow.
May cheer the clouds which shade the light
That shines to-morrow.
'Tis better then to be content,
Altho' we are not worth a cent;
Our precious hours when wisely spent
Are still the best,
For nature's ills are never sent
To be a pest.
And let it never be our creed,
That when we do an evil deed,
To think that penance can succeed,
To cancel sin;
We pluck the fruit, but still the seed
Remains within.
But may we daily strive to win
That happy world which knows no sin,
'Tis on the heaven we form within
Our bliss depends,
Where life celestial shall begin,
Which never ends.