While in the moment of their weary pause,
To cheer thy bankrupt pomp, the willing lark
Starts from his shielding clod,
Snatching sweet scraps of song.
Thy life is waning now, and Silence tries
To mourn, but meets no sympathy in sounds,
As stooping low she bends,
Forming with leaves thy grave;
To sleep inglorious there mid tangled woods,
Till parched-lipped Summer pines in drought away
Then from thine ivy’d trance
Awake to glories new.
THE VANITIES OF LIFE
WHAT are life’s joys and gains,
What pleasures crowd its ways,
That man should take such pains
To seek them all his days?
Sift this untoward strife
On which thy mind is bent—
See if this chaff of life
Be worth the trouble spent.
Is pride thy heart’s desire?
Is power thy climbing aim?
Is love thy folly’s fire?
Is wealth thy restless game?—
Pride, power, love, wealth, and all,
Time’s touchstone shall destroy;
And, like base coin, prove all
Vain substitutes for joy.
Dost think thy pride exalts
Thyself in others’ eyes,
And hides thy folly’s faults,
Which reason will despise?
Dost strut, and turn, and stride,
Like walking weathercocks?
The shadow, by thy side,
Becomes thy ape, and mocks.
Dost think that power’s disguise
Can make thee mighty seem?
It may in folly’s eyes,
But not in worth’s esteem.
When all that thou canst ask,
And all that she can give,
Is but a paltry mask,
Which tyrants wear and live.
Go, let thy fancies range,
And ramble where they may
View power in every change,
And what is its display?—
The country magistrate,
The lowest shade in power,
To rulers of the state?—
The meteors of an hour.