Epigram.
Epigram on reading an article in the Newspapers, stating that the Garrison of Dantzic had eaten their last Horse.
By the newsmen we’re told, and believe it of course,
That the people of Dantzic had eat their last horse;
In resources, how much should we Dantzic surpass
Could we only hold out, till we eat our last ass.
To the May Fly.
Thou art a frail and lively thing
Engender’d by the sun;
A moment only on the wing,
And thy career is done.
Thou sportest in the evening beam
An hour—an age to thee—
In gaiety above the stream
Which soon thy grave must be.
Although thy life is like to thee,
An atom—art thou not
Far happier than thou e’er could’st be,
If long life were thy lot?
For then deep pangs might wound thy breast,
And make thee wish for death;
But as it is thou’rt soon at rest,
Thou creature of a breath!
And man’s life passeth thus away,
A thing of joy and sorrow;
The earth he treads upon to-day
Shall cover him to-morrow.
“As the sun declines the misnamed ‘May-fly’ is to be seen emerging from the surface of shallow streams, and lying there for a time till its wings are dried for flight. Escaping after a protracted struggle of half a minute from its watery birth place, it flutters restlessly up and down over the same spot during its whole era of a summer evening, and at last dies as the last streaks of day are leaving the western horizon. Yet, who shall say, that in that space of time it has not undergone all the vicissitudes of a long and eventful life? That it has not felt all the freshness of youth, all the vigour of maturity, all the weakness and satiety of old age, and all the pangs of death itself? In short, who shall satisfy us that any essential difference exists between its four hours, and our fourscore years?”