WOE.
Woe unto them that rise up early in the morning, that they may follow strong drink; that continue until night, till wine inflame them. —Isaiah, v. 11.
Woe unto us, that we have sinned.—Lamentations, v. 16.
Venomous thornes that are so sharpe and kene,
Bear flowers we see full fresh and fayre of hue,
Poyson is also put in medicine,
And unto man his health doth oft renew.
The fire that all things eke consumeth clene
May hurt and heale; then if this be true,
I trust sometime my harm may be my healthe,
Since every woe is joined with some wealth!
Wyatt.
Though life seem one uncomfortable void,
Guilt at thy heels, before thy face despair;
Yet, gay this scene, and light this load of woe,
Compared with thy hereafter.
Bishop Porteus.
But, God be thanked! there are moments, when
Man, subdued by nature’s mightiest powers,
Thinks even his purer self the sport of waves.
In such like moments ’tis the Godhead shows us
The distance ’twixt itself and us,—chastises
Man’s vain audacity to equal it,
And casts him back to nothingness and woe.
In such like moments, even the wisest sinks
Unto the dust: he, too, is formed of dust;
But soon again he rises purified
By Fate’s worst blast, and thus the Eternal’s will
Declares and proves its own omnipotence.
Herder.
But dreadful is their doom whom doubt has driven
To censure fate, and pious hope forego:
Like yonder blasted boughs, by lightning riven,
Perfection, beauty, life, they never know,
But frown on all that pass, a monument of woe.
Beattie.
Woe unto those that with the morning sun
Rise to drink wine, and set till he have done
His weary course; not ceasing, until night
Have quenched their understanding with the light.
Bishop King.
The Son of God, in doing good,
Was fain to look to Heaven, and sigh;
And shall the heirs of sinful blood
Seek joy unmixed in charity?
God will not let love’s work impart
Full solace, lest it steal the heart;
Be thou content in tears to sow,
Blessing, like Jesus, in thy woe.
Keble.
Væ vobis, ye whose lip doth lave
So deeply in the sparkling wine,
Regardless though that passion wave
Shut from the soul heaven’s light divine;
Væ vobis!—heed the trumpet blast,
Fly ere the leprous taint is deep,
Fly!—ere the hour of hope be past,
And pitying angels cease to weep.
Væ vobis, ye who fail to read,
That name which glows where’er ye tread,
The Alpha of an infant creed,
The Omega of the sainted dead;
’Tis written where the pencill’d flowers
Their tablet to the desert show,
And where the mountain’s rocky towers
Frown darkly on the vale below;
Where roll the wondrous orbs on high,
In glorious order strong and fair,
In every letter of the sky
That midnight graves—’tis there—’tis there!
It gleams on ocean’s wrinkled brow,
And in the shell that gems its shore,
And where the solemn forests bow
Væ vobis, ye, who scorn the lore.
L. H. Sigourney.