We little know, perchance thy bier
Was borne by willing knave,
Whose ruthless hand hath laid thee here
To fill a pauper’s grave.
VII.
In sad reflection thee I scan,
Lone tenant of this cell;
Oh, could’st thou speak to mortal man,
What mysteries would’st thou tell!
VIII.
Now all is o’er—how vain, how weak,
Are earthly strife and power—
The bubble on the brooklet’s cheek,
The tempest of an hour.
IX.
Oh, human pride, how weak, how vain!
An evanescent breath;
Oh life!—the memory of a pain,
That will not die with death.
X.
What checkered things our lives will be,
How awful to behold,
When in eternity we see
Life’s motley web unrolled!