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.